


Hooked

by NarrowBridge, Warrior717



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drama, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Neverland (Peter Pan), Original Character(s), Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2018-08-29 17:04:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 122,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8498161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NarrowBridge/pseuds/NarrowBridge, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warrior717/pseuds/Warrior717
Summary: AU set in Neverland, picks up right after Season 1 Finale. Rumplestiltskin and Belle set out to find his son in a land that will challenge and change them in ways even the most accomplished seers cannot foretell. The infamous Dark One will be forced to make the most important, and most costly, deal of his life. Will he choose love, or power?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! So this story was posted to fanfiction.net a while back before season 2 of "Once Upon a Time" even aired, but we wanted to post it here too. This is a collaborative fanfiction novel, based off the show "Once Upon a Time", but here is a tip: To really immerse yourself into this story, you'll want to forget all about the other seasons, because this is our version of events leading directly after the season 1 finale. 
> 
> We hope you enjoy, and please leave us your thoughts! :)

Far away and very near, in the space between the notes of a laugh, there is a land where clocks do not tick and never means forever.

Some claim this land was forged from the forgotten dreams of the other lands' children. Others claim it was forged from the dust of stars.

Neverland claims that it simply always was.

Every leaf and twig, every insect and critter, seems to glisten and hum with the sweet essence of magic. But it was not always so.

Neverland remembers when it first tasted magic. It all started with the arrival of an adolescent boy with a curious name and a bitter heart.

He materialized late one night, alone, on a stone ledge overlooking Neverland's waters, surrounded by tendrils of brilliant emerald light. Had the island not witnessed his extraordinary arrival, it would have still known that this boy was different from any other. He did not gawk at the way the island's willows and rocks seemed to whisper and breathe with a life of their own, did not marvel at the spectrum of iridescent colors that painted each and every leaf. He merely sat down, hugging his knees and clenching his teeth, quaking with a sorrow and rage uncharacteristic of someone who had not lived a hundred tortured lifetimes. Yet he did not cry. Yes, this boy was very different indeed.

The magic arrived soon after, in the form of seven tiny, winged creatures with tinkling voices, and Neverland was never the same.

The fairies looked after the boy, offering him companionship and warmth, but their soothing words and tenderness alone could not ease the bitterness which plagued the boy's heart, could not ward off the nightmares which tormented his sleep.

So, they taught him how to fly.

And fly he did. Oh, the cool caress of the wind on his face, in his hair: it was blissful oblivion. He tumbled and twirled above the treetops, laughing as their leaves tickled his bare feet. Enveloped by the fairies' magic, the boy was uninhibited, free.

But when he landed, bitter memories of broken promises swarmed about him like a flock of ravenous vultures, pecking and pulling and tearing at his soul until it was raw and bleeding.

So every day the fairies' magic lifted the boy's broken spirit high into the air, washing over the bruises like a warm balm, and each time his willowy legs returned to the earth, the flock seemed smaller, their beaks less piercing.

One day they vanished altogether; the boy was reborn.

As he soared above the wispy clouds, joyfully shouting his new name to the island, his dancing eyes caught something they had not seen before: the dark silhouette of a pirate ship ghosting along the horizon.

* * *

 . . .


	2. Chapter 2

" _Because magic is power_."

Belle's blood turned to ice in her veins at the covetous note in his brogue, which seemed both familiar and unfamiliar.

The massive plume of violet mist enveloped the pair, cutting off any view of their surroundings. Despite herself, Belle pressed closer to Rumplestiltskin's side.

The magic snaked over and round their bodies, permeating their layers of clothing and coating their skin in a way that reminded Belle of the cheap, chalky soap the nurses had used on her once a week for as long as she could remember. The magic was simultaneously cold and hot, making Belle's skin erupt in gooseflesh and flush a delicate pink. She fought back a wave of nausea as its sickly sweet scent invaded her nostrils.

Rumplestiltskin, however, seemed to revel in it. He welcomed the pervasive mist like a second skin, releasing a low hum of delight as he felt the beginnings of that heady sense of control he so enjoyed when he reigned as Dark One take root in his core.

A sudden breeze whistled past the pair's ears, and for a moment Belle wondered if it was a product of the magic itself. With the encouragement of the breeze, the musky cloud of magic slowly dispelled. When all that remained was a lavender haze, Belle removed herself from Rumplestiltskin's side. She could not tell if her knees quaked from anger or fear.

"What have you done?" Belle breathed, her tone more shocked than accusatory.

Rumplestiltskin did not appear to hear her. He remained motionless, his brow crinkled in concentration. He stared unblinkingly ahead, the glaze in his eyes indicating that he directed his gaze not at something far away, but something deep within.

Belle opened her mouth to speak again, halting the effort with a slight gasp when Rumplestiltskin's cane suddenly dropped from his grasp, clattering noisily against the stone base of the Wishing Well. She watched as he experimentally flexed his leg, and immediately understood. He had healed whatever injury had caused him to limp.

Rumplestiltskin's face did not sport the look of relief Belle had expected to see there. Rather, his lips pressed together in a hard line, his eyes tightened in consternation.

"Rumplestiltskin, what does this mean?" Belle finally asked, desperate for any response, any explanation, any indication that he was not making the same mistake that had infused both of their lives with tragedy.

The sound of Belle's lilting voice curling around the syllables of his name yanked Rumplestiltskin from his reverie. He looked about jerkily, as though ensuring that they still remained alone.

"We need to leave." He moved to grasp Belle's hand. A brief flash of hurt crossed his features when she jerked her hand out of his reach, stepping back.

"Not until you explain what is happening," Belle countered, folding her arms across the front of her hospital shift.

"Later, Belle. I'll explain everything lat—"

"No." For a moment they merely stared at each other, surprised by the force of Belle's tone, before she continued.

"Now. You owe me that much." Rumplestiltskin flinched at her words, and for a moment Belle almost felt guilty for throwing his past mistakes in his face. But his earlier words echoed in her mind, which still ached from the recent onslaught of memories, strengthening her resolve to confront rather than flee.

She stared at him, wondering if he understood how much she needed his assurance that history was not about to repeat itself.

"You're right." Belle nearly choked on the shock of hearing those words come from his mouth.

Rumplestiltskin approached her cautiously, as though afraid she might sprint away like a timid doe.

"And I promise, I _will_ explain. But, Belle, _please_..."

The sheer urgency in his voice, the desperation for her to understand, silenced any protest she might have offered. He gripped her petite hand in his own, his eyes softening in relief when she did not pull away, and for a moment Belle expected him to magic them to his home, as he had done an eternity ago when he was a deal-making imp and she a self-sacrificing princess.

But he did not. He merely pulled her along the same forest path they had originally followed to the well. The breeze that had dispelled the violet smoke seemed to follow them, whispering against the backs of their necks and toying with their hair.

As they trekked through the hilly terrain, Rumplestiltskin still did not use magic, not to bend branches nor remove stones obstructing their path. Belle wondered if perhaps he had not regained his powers after all. No, that could not be; he had repaired his lame leg, walking now with an unfettered, albeit anxious, gait.

His brow remained furrowed, whether in fear or concentration, Belle knew not. She had only ever seen him afraid once before, and the memory of the way he had yelled and shook her still made her insides clench.

Finally they reached Rumplestiltskin's home in this world. On any other occasion Belle might have laughed at its uncharacteristic coral pink paint job, but not today.  
Today she was a poorly dressed marionette whose every move seemed dictated by strings of trepidation and Rumplestiltskin's hand.

She remained silent as Rumplestiltskin led her over the threshold. He hurriedly closed and locked the door. The curious breeze that had accompanied their journey seemed to whistle in protest as it found its path obstructed.

Releasing Belle's hand, Rumplestiltskin removed his jacket and threw it over the long mirror in the front hallway, before bolting into an adjacent room, mumbling a promise to return in a moment.

"Oh, no you don't!" Belle called out to him, the invisible strings which had seemed to keep her paralyzed and silent snapping at his actions. She hurried after him, maneuvering around the assortment of antiques and trinkets—some of which she remembered from Rumplestiltskin's collection at the Dark Castle—that littered the place.

She pursued him up a set of rickety stairs that groaned under their combined weight. He snatched a towel out of a small linen closet and then sharply rounded a corner into another room; Belle followed suit, nearly colliding with Rumplestiltskin as he raced out of that room—a bathroom, she realized—and into another room across the hall. Panting, Belle chased after him.

She froze in the doorway. It was a room, a study, but it looked so much like his makeshift laboratory Belle found herself momentarily disoriented.

" _Please_ , let it still be here..." She heard Rumplestiltskin mumble as he threw open an old trunk and rifled through the mess within. Papers spilled over the trunk's side and floated to the floor.

"What are you—" Belle's question died in her throat when he pulled out a small, antique wooden chest. His movements suddenly stilled, and the caution with which he opened the lid made Belle apprehensive of whatever lay inside.

Nonetheless, she shuffled closer to look over Rumplestiltskin's shoulder as he released a long, low sigh at the contents.

It was a dagger, with a thin black hilt and a long crooked blade. But the weapon itself was not what caught Belle's attention. It was the slanted letters inscribed into the silver blade: _Rumplestiltskin_.

Though she had never come across it during the months she had lived with Rumplestiltskin in his castle, Belle had heard rumors about the Dark One's dagger.

"I am such a _fool_ ," Belle whispered, more to herself than the man before her.

Rumplestiltskin jumped slightly at her words, snapping the chest shut and turning to face her.

Belle backed away slowly, shaking her head. "I thought you were lying, when you told me your power meant more to you than I."

Rumplestiltskin approached her, "I was—"

Belle cut him off with a laugh completely devoid of mirth, and Rumplestiltskin felt a wedge of unease slide between his ribs.

"No, I was wrong. I am a complete _fool_...for ever thinking you could change."

"Belle—"

She turned on her feet and bolted from the room. She did not know where she would go, _could_ go, but staying in the same room with a man who could simultaneously make her feel more love and pain than she felt in her entire life was unthinkable.

Terror at the sudden thought of losing Belle again propelled Rumplestiltskin after her. He caught up to her at the foot of the stairs, grabbing her wrist. She whirled about to face him.

"When are you going to realize that love is not a weakness?!" Belle threw the question at him, her lilting accent thickened by her rage.

"Belle, I am not choosing magic over y—” She cut him off, shaking her head.

"Then why bother bringing it back in the first place?"

Rumplestiltskin ran a hand through his hair, sighing.

"It's...complicated. But, Belle, trust me, there _is_ a reason—"

She scoffed at his futile words and made to turn away again. Rumplestiltskin reached out and grasped her upper arms, firmly but not violently as he had done all those years ago.

"Why won't you believe me?" For a moment they both paused at his words, remembering how Belle had asked the same question when Rumplestiltskin was denying her love for him.

Belle shook her head sadly, "I wish I coul—” Her words broke off as her eyes caught something beyond Rumplestiltskin's shoulder. The little color she had gained during their feud drained from her face.

Rumplestiltskin turned around, his eyes following her gaze.

It was the cup she had chipped on her first day as the caretaker of Rumplestiltskin's castle.

Belle approached the mantle on which the cup sat cautiously, as though afraid it might disappear at a sudden movement. She stretched a trembling hand toward it, her fingers hovering over the porcelain surface.

"You kept it..." She breathed, disbelieving.

"It was all I had." A silence passed between them as the words of Belle's dark prophecy—" _All you'll have is an empty heart and a chipped cup_ "—seemed to echo ethereally in the room.  
She turned to face him, tears stinging at the corner of her eyes.

"Belle, I thought you were _dead_." And then he was clutching her to him, and though she wanted to smack him for his foolishness, she only fiercely held him closer.

They stood like that for what might have been centuries, letting their embrace voice all the apologies, and prayers, and pleas and promises they had wanted to say for decades. Eventually, when she could no longer tolerate the lack of blood flow to her hands, Belle relinquished her grip on Rumplestiltskin's jacket, and he followed suit.

They pulled apart far enough so they could look in each other's eyes. Rumplestiltskin smoothed an errant curl behind Belle's ear.

Belle wondered if he was remembering their first (and only) kiss, too.

"I will kill her for this," he murmured.

Apparently he was not.


	3. Chapter 3

"What?" Belle asked, her brow crinkled in confusion.

"Regina. She lied to me; she had you the _entire_ time.  That sort of crime deserves punishment."

"No." Belle disentangled herself from Rumplestiltskin, shaking her head.

"No?"  Rumplestiltskin was certain he had not heard her correctly.

"No. I do not want revenge, Rumplestiltskin. And certainly not at your expense."

"She locked you away for decades, and you plan on just _letting it go_?"

Belle shrugged, holding back a chuckle at the incredulous expression on Rumplestiltskin's face. 

"It shouldn't be too hard.  I don't remember much, anyway."

This time it was Rumplestiltskin's turn to laugh.  "Tell me, dearie, how does one forget _years_ of captivity?"

"I think...I was asleep for most of it."

And this time Belle could not withhold her laughter at the entirely bewildered expression Rumplestiltskin wore.  She moved over to a maroon sofa, pulling him by the hand to sit beside her, before continuing.

"It was a few days after you...after I...after our...uh...argument.  I was in a small tavern near the dwarf mines.  I met a dwarf there.  He was entirely smitten with a fairy.  I—uh—sort of gave him some love advice.  I told him to find her, to enjoy love while it lasts...because it doesn't always last forever."

She glanced sheepishly at Rumplestiltskin for a moment.

"Wise words," he quipped.  She laughed.

"I think 'misguided and jaded words' is a more accurate way to put it.  Anyway, I eventually decided to follow my own advice, and go back. To you."

Tenderness and warmth overshadowed the momentary shock in Rumplestiltskin's gaze; Belle felt her face flush lightly.

"On the way, I came across a deserted stone cottage that I am certain was not there when I first traveled that road.  I should have kept walking...But my feet moved of their own accord.  I went inside."

She looked over at Rumplestiltskin, embarrassed at her recklessness.  Her embarrassment was unnecessary, however.  Even from the little she had told him so far, Rumplestiltskin knew that magic, _dark_ magic, was involved.

"The inside seemed perfectly normal, if a bit dusty and unkempt.  I turned to leave, realizing how silly I was for venturing inside, when I saw it, resting in the corner...a spinning wheel."

Another lovely blush painted her cheeks.

"It—it reminded me of you, and before I could think otherwise, my feet were bringing me closer.  I don't think I could have walked away if I wanted to."

Her brow furrowed as she remembered how strange she had felt, as though her mind and body had been two separate entities, working against instead of with each other.

"I spun it a few times, remembering how yours seemed to thrum with life under your touch.  I traced its wooden contours with my fingertips.  It was not dusty like the rest of the cottage... And then I was bleeding."

She rubbed the pad of her thumb across the tip of her index finger, remembering the tiny wound she had received from the spinning wheel's needle.

"Everything grew hazy...my whole body felt like it was made of lead...I believe I heard a woman laughing..."

Rumplestiltskin grit his teeth at her description.  Oh yes, he knew just whose laugh Belle had heard before falling into an enchanted sleep.

"The next memory I have is of my...room...in the hospital basement.  And even those are unclear, as though they were lived by someone else."

Rumplestiltskin clenched his fists.  Three _decades_ he had lived each day believing Belle to be dead, believing he would never again see her crinkle her nose at his wicked humor, or hear her lilting voice relay every detail of her current favorite book... He wanted Regina to _pay_.  He wanted her to hurt for every moment he had spent hating himself for shutting Belle out, for every night he was tormented by visions of her mangled, lifeless body lying at the base of a tower...

"It is not worth it, Rum. I'm fine, I'm alive."  Belle's soft voice pulled him from his dark reverie.  He nodded at her words, though he did not agree.  It _would_ be worth it, to punish Regina, to give her a taste of her own bitter medicine.  But he did not need to think on that just now.

He thought back to what Belle had said, what she had called him, and raised an eyebrow.  "Did you say 'Rum'?"

She blushed scarlet at her slip-up.  "It's...what I used to call you in my head at the Dark Castle.  'Rumplestiltskin' is a bit of a mouthful, you know."

Rumplestiltskin laughed loudly at her admission, and Belle was relieved when he did not seem to mind this new shorthand version of his name.

Belle slid closer to Rumplestiltskin on the sofa, hesitantly resting her head on his shoulder.  Her heart fluttered lightly when he drew an arm around her.

"Rum...why did you bring magic here?  How did we all get here in the first place?"

Rumplestiltskin sighed deeply.  He had been expecting the first question, and was prepared to answer it now, but the second question... He had been hoping to put off telling Belle that it was he who had invented the most powerful curse in all the realms, that it was he who had told Regina how to cast it.

Taking a long, steadying breath, Rumplestiltskin did the only thing he could: he told Belle the entire, ugly truth, from his tragic deal with Bae, to his lethal curse-casting instructions to the Queen.

Belle was not entirely surprised to learn that he had created the curse which brought them all to this world, but she shot him a long, disapproving glare not so unlike that she had employed when he had tracked mud all over "her" floors.

But, she _was_ surprised to learn that his son was alive.  She had interpreted, as he had intended, his assertion that he had "lost" his son to mean that his son had passed away. 

Rumplestiltskin told her that he needed the magic to find his son, and for protection, which was mostly true.  He did not tell her how much he had missed magic, how he had missed the static warmth of it coursing through his veins, the thrilling sense of control it gave him, but the piercing look Belle gave him suggested that she had already guessed as much.

It was nearly sundown when Rumplestiltskin finished his tale, or was it a confession?  Belle sat in silence for a long moment, her gaze fixed on her lap, before pulling herself to her feet.

Rumplestiltskin's pulse began to race.  She was leaving him.  He was _losing_ her.

But she was walking the wrong way.  The front door was on the northern side of the house, not the southern.

"Where are you going?"  He croaked out, halting her steps.

Belle turned around to face him, eyebrow quirked.

"If we are going to embark on a worldwide search for your son, I should like to wash up first."

* * *

 

The breeze that had been humming against the windows of Rumplestiltskin's mansion drifted in the direction of the rest of the tiny town that had been thrust into magic's fickle hands.  As it neared the modest convent, its speed and intensity increased, until it was howling with the ferocity of a tempest.  It burst through a tiny upstairs window and soared toward the petite brunette sitting at a wooden desk.

The Reul Ghorm's body stiffened at the sudden encounter, her eyes clouding as they glimpsed something worlds away.  She clenched her fists against the shadow of dread that settled over her small form.  With a gasp she yanked herself back to the present, sweat beading on her pale brow.  She ran a shaking hand through her lanky brown hair, trying to interpret what she had just seen.

With a solitary steadying breath, she grabbed her coat and exited the room.  Without a word to the other fairies, she left the convent and started down the town's main road.  The purple haze had completely dispelled by now, and the air seemed to buzz with a life it had not possessed before.  In one brief moment this entire world had been transformed into something it was not destined to be. 

Anxiety gnawed at the Blue Fairy's stomach with every step she took as she realized just whom she was going to see. 

* * *

 

Rumplestiltskin rifled through his wardrobe of pressed suits, searching for something less constricting and conspicuous to wear.  He could hear the shower running across the hallway.  With a smirk and a shake of his head, he recalled how relieved he had been when it became clear that the vestiges of memories Belle retained of this world included familiarity with the modern shower.

He eventually found something practical; it felt slightly foreign, but not unpleasant, to wear something other than the starched suits he'd worn for nearly three decades.

Before leaving the room to start packing—and wait for Belle to finish what was becoming a rather long shower—Rumplestiltskin reached into the side pocket of his discarded pair of pants.

He pulled out a thin silver bracelet.  He had given it to his son shortly after he had become the Dark One...

_Rumplestiltskin sat before his spinning wheel, his eyes squinted slightly in concentration.  At his feet lay a pile of silver twine, with a few strands of copper mixed in.  He had been spinning since dawn, using his magic to transform the straw into metal, and it was now well past sundown.  He had managed to upgrade from copper to silver rather quickly, but could not seem to produce even a single strand of gold._

_With a frustrated sigh he dropped his discolored hands from the wheel, rubbing one against this forehead, which had begun to ache from his efforts._

_"Papa, what is the matter?" Baelfire asked drowsily from his bed across the room._

_"It's nothing, Bae. Go on back to sleep," Rumplestiltskin responded, his mouth stretching into a small smile that did not quite reach his eyes._

_"Please, I can help. What keeps you awake so late tonight?" Baelfire asked, sliding off of his bed and approaching his father.  He sat down on the small stool beside the spinning wheel._

_"I am trying to spin straw into gold," Rumplestiltskin relented, knowing his son's concern for him would not be quelled easily, "So I can give you a better life, the one you deserve."_

_"I don't need gold, Papa. I have you." He said quietly, before his mouth stretched into a wide yawn. Rumplestiltskin smiled, shaking his head lightly, wondering what he had ever done to deserve such a kind-hearted son._

_He wrapped an arm about his son's shoulders, pulling him closer so he could kiss the crown of his head. "Get some sleep, son." He said quietly._

_"Goodnight." Baelfire murmured, returning the one-armed embrace tightly.  He rose from the stool then, teetering for a moment, and returned to his bed, falling swiftly back to sleep._

_The next morning Baelfire had woken with a thin braid of silver string tied about his wrist._

_"I would have made you one of gold, if I could." Rumplestiltskin had said quietly at breakfast._

_"I would have worn one of straw, if you'd made it." Baelfire answered, smiling fondly at the silver chain._

The bracelet had broken and fallen off of Baelfire's wrist the night Rumplestiltskin had let him fall through the vortex alone.  Since then Rumplestiltskin had carried it with him, waiting for the day when he could return it to its rightful owner.

Squeezing the bracelet tight for a moment, Rumplestiltskin placed it in his jacket pocket.  He walked over to another closet, retrieving two rucksacks.  Casting a quick look about the room, he turned about and started down the stairs.

Belle ventured downstairs about an hour later, her auburn curls tied in a loose bun at the base of her neck and her skin still flushed from showering.  The scalding stream of water had untied most of the knots in her shoulders and stomach, and she had thoroughly scrubbed away any lingering scent of ammonia from the hospital.  She felt refreshed, renewed...and utterly silly in the pair of clothes she had borrowed from Rumplestiltskin's wardrobe.

She wore one of his long-sleeve, button-down shirts, rolling back the cuffs so that they rested at her elbows.  On her legs she wore a pair of his black pants.  Although he was not a very tall man, the legs fell several inches past her toes, so she had been forced to cuff them a few times.  The waistline fit well enough; in fact, it was a little snug.  Belle made a mental note to make sure Rumplestiltskin ate more.

When he saw what a picture Belle was in a borrowed pair of his clothes, Rumplestiltskin could not stifle his laughter.

"Oh, stop it. It's only temporary."  She huffed, crossing her arms over her chest and trying to fight back her own small smile.

"You wear them far better than I ever could, my dear," Rumplestiltskin politely offered, still chuckling.

"Why, thank you." Despite how obviously untrue his words were, Belle blushed lightly and curtsied.

Belle took a moment to take in Rumplestiltskin's appearance.  He had changed clothes while she showered, and she was quite pleased to see that he had abandoned the crisp black suit and tie.  He now wore a brown leather jacket over a white shirt with a flattering pair of dark blue jeans.  On his feet was a practical pair of brown leather shoes.  Belle smiled at this, remembering how cumbersome the knee-high boots he had favored back at the Dark Castle had been.

She liked the way the leather jacket seemed to bring out the natural highlights of his sandy brown hair.

"What is it?" Rumplestiltskin asked lightly, having noticed her quick analysis.

Belle felt her face flush scarlet.  "Nothing...you just wear it well," she replied, gesturing to the jacket.

He quirked an eyebrow at her words.  "I wore leather back in our world, too, you know."

"Well, you wore it well then, too." Belle responded, and this time it was Rumplestiltskin's turn to flush lightly.

Rumplestiltskin cleared his throat, returning his attention to the two rucksacks he'd been packing. 

"We'll be leaving tonight; I'm afraid there's been a slight change in plans." He spoke to her over his shoulder.

"I was not aware there was a plan to begin with."  Belle responded, moving to stand beside him and help pack.  He chuckled at her words.

"My dear, do you not know me at all?"  He turned his attention back to their bags, smiling at Belle's soft laughter.

"The magic I brought to this world is behaving rather...unexpectedly.  It is not bending to my will as I had hoped it would.  It is resisting."  Rumplestiltskin explained, his voice contemplative, if a little agitated. 

"But, you healed your leg." Belle recalled, frowning in confusion.

"I can channel a very small amount, so far.  Perhaps when it settles, when it adjusts to the natural laws of this world, I will be able to do more."

"You talk about magic as though it has a personality, feelings."  Belle observed, both unnerved and intrigued by Rumplestiltskin's words.

"It would be reckless to treat it otherwise.  This magic is new, born of True Love, the most powerful magic of all.  And I have just thrust it into a world that is not built to accommodate it. Needless to say, I believe it will be some time before everyone regains their full power."  He pulled the straps of his rucksack closed, lifting it to test its weight.

"That's why we're leaving tonight, then?  So you can put as many miles between us and your...adversaries, before they can use magic again?"

"Precisely. So we can search without any trivial interruptions, at least for a while."

Belle nodded at his words, tucking a folded flannel blanket in her rucksack.

"What about the rest of the town," Belle asked after a moment, frowning slightly, "when Regina regains her powers?"

Rumplestiltskin's lips stretched in a small smile; of course his Belle would be concerned for the others.

"The fairies will have regained their powers as well.  They'll look after the others; they're on the 'good' side."

"Which side are you on?"  Belle asked, a playful glint in her eyes.

"That, my dear, is the beauty of being an opportunist. Either side suits me just fine."  Rumplestiltskin said, smirking puckishly.

A sudden, frantic knocking sounded at the door.  Belle jumped slightly and opened her mouth to speak, but Rumplestiltskin pressed a finger to his lips. 

Rumplestiltskin slowly approached his front door, unable to distinguish the identity of the visitor through its stained glass window.  Reaching inside and taking hold of the little magic he had managed to harness, he pulled open the door.

"Well, well, what a _pleasant_ surprise."  He sneered, taking in the harried expression on the incessantly interfering Blue Fairy's face.

"I need to speak with y—"

"You have no business here." Rumplestiltskin cut her off, moving to close the door.

"On the contrary, I'm afraid I do."  But for her petite hands twisting in the hem of her black coat, she was the picture of serene certainty.

"You're lying; you've never sought my assistance before." He scoffed, his smirk contradicting the coldness in his eyes.

"You have not changed one bit, Rumplestiltskin." The Blue Fairy sighed, shaking her head in exasperation.  "I had hoped I would be wrong..." She added more softly.

"Well, you should know dealing with little cockroaches such as yourself does not bring out the best color in me, dearie." Rumplestiltskin leered, the look in his eyes hardening when the fairy pressed her hand against the door to prevent him from closing it.

"I am well aware, but now is not the time for this. I have a matter to discuss with you."

"And what matter is this?" Rumplestiltskin grinded out through clenched teeth.

"A matter concerning your son."

 


	4. Chapter 4

_ "A matter concerning your son." _

Rumplestiltskin froze.He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears.Of all the words she could have thrown at him, she chose the very ones he had been least expecting. For a moment he considered banishing her from his front step with a burst of the magic he had managed to tame.She would not be able to put up much resistance; he could tell from the weak hum of her aura that she had not regained her full powers, yet.He quickly took in her appearance: her face was so pale her brown eyes seemed like two dark holes in her skull, her hands twisting in the hem of her coat, her clothes wrinkled...

The Blue Fairy looked positively shaken, and Rumplestiltskin did not think it was due to his presence.

With the uncomfortable sensation of a pit opening in his gut, he nodded, opening the door enough so that she could slip inside the Victorian home.Once she was inside and the door relocked, Rumplestiltskin busied himself again with his rucksack, if only to distract his hands, which had begun to shake slightly.

"What do you know of him?"Rumplestiltskin asked, his voice raspier than he had expected. 

He heard the Blue Fairy inhale a deep breath before answering, "He isn't here."

Rumplestiltskin's rucksack fell to the floor.He heard Belle gasp, but it sounded miles away.That pit in his stomach seemed to have widened to consume half of his heart, so that for a moment he could only stare ahead, paralyzed.Swallowing hard, trying to regain even a semblance of his usual aloof demeanor, he retrieved the rucksack from the floor and turned to face the pixie.

"What do you mean 'he isn't here?' Where is he?"Rumplestiltskin asked, his voice cool but his hands clutching into fists, the knuckles shining white.

"Neverland."

Rumplestiltskin stared at the Blue Fairy for a long moment, before releasing a single, loud note of a mirthless laugh.

"That's impossible. I've read of Neverland; it is a land of _magic_.There are fairies there.You said the portal would take us to a land _without_ magic."Rumplestiltskin glared at the fairy, his lips twisted into a dark smirk at her weak attempt to trick him.

"Neverland _was_ a land without magic when your son made his wish. I sent the fairies after, to watch over him."

"You sent magic to Neverland, knowing that my curse would transport us to a land without magic?" Rumplestiltskin gritted through clenched teeth.

"Your son needed protection; he was completely alone, in a strange land — "

"You _lied_." Rumplestiltskin snarled.

"I did what I felt was right at the time." The Blue Fairy responded austerely.

Rumplestiltskin shook his head at her words; he slammed his rucksack on the table, making both the Blue Fairy and Belle jump slightly.

"Tell me, do you not tire of these fiendish tricks?" He hissed angrily, his gaze intense enough to burn.

"I would not have deemed these methods necessary if you had not abandoned your son in the first place!"

Rumplestiltskin flinched as though the Blue Fairy had struck him.Silence fell over the room, and the age-old adversaries looked away from each other.The Blue Fairy watched as Rumplestiltskin leaned against the back of a sofa.He rubbed a hand over his eyes.

"Why reveal this now, after so many years?" It was Belle who broke the silence, approaching Rumplestiltskin to lay a gentle hand on his back.She trained her gaze on the Blue Fairy, her blue eyes neither accusatory nor forgiving.

The Blue Fairy inhaled deeply, wishing her next words were not true.

"I...made a mistake.I did not intend to keep the boy's location secret for so long; I only wanted to wait until Rumplestiltskin had changed, until he was ready to be the father Baelfire needed.But then things started to spiral out of control; the Dark One and the Evil Queen were growing evermore powerful and the danger of the Curse being enacted became a reality."

The Blue Fairy's eyes darted from the pair, begging them to understand that she truly meant no ill. "We do not have much time. Rumplestiltskin, your son is in danger." 

Rumplestiltskin's head snapped up, his gaze intense. The little color in his face seemed to vanish. "What do you mean? From what — "

"I do not know from what or whom, only that it is grave and we must act now." The Blue Fairy answered.

Without another word, Rumplestiltskin grabbed the two rucksacks they had packed, handing one to Belle and hoisting his own over his back.

"How do we get there, to Neverland?" Belle asked, tightening the straps of her bag around her shoulders.

"There is a way, but I will need another fairy's magic to help. We'll need to go to the convent."

After taking one last glance about the room to ensure they were not forgetting something, and tucking a long piece of cloth which Belle knew held his dagger in his breast pocket, Rumplestiltskin turned to face the Blue Fairy.

"If this is a trick, I will mount your wings on my wall."

The Blue Fairy ignored his threat, her features twisting as another frigid wave of dread washed over her.They did not have much time.

* * *

 

They walked down the town's deserted streets in silence.Most of the streetlights were unlit, with some of them flickering faintly; the magic Rumplestiltskin had brought to the land seemed at odds with electricity.The Blue Fairy could not say she did not appreciate the added cover of darkness, however.It would not bode well to be interrupted when they had such precious little time to waste.Nevertheless, she looked about frequently at their surroundings, seeking out any potential followers or eavesdroppers.Rumplestiltskin seemed to be doing the same thing as he walked with his arm around the shoulders of the young woman at his side.

As they approached the fairies' humble abode, she could feel Rumplestiltskin trying to draw more magic from the surrounding air.A part of him still expected an ambush.Sighing lightly, the Blue Fairy unlocked the front door, looking back to ensure once again that they were not being followed.

A few solitary candles lit the convent's narrow front hallway.The place was silent save for a soft dripping noise from the leaky faucet in the kitchen, the one Rumplestiltskin had refused to have fixed when he was just their irritable landlord.Discarding her coat on an old worn armchair, the Blue Fairy turned to face the pair.Rumplestiltskin's eyes were scanning the walls; given his infamous enmity toward the Queen, the Blue Fairy guessed he was searching for any uncovered mirrors.

"If you'd like, there are some donated clothes...You can find something more comfortable?" she suggested, her eyes taking in Belle's borrowed outfit.She reached a hand out toward the young woman, who nodded gratefully.

"Belle is not leaving my side," Rumplestiltskin gritted, his eyes glaring at the Blue Fairy suspiciously. 

"It's all right, Rum. I'll just be in the other room," Belle said quietly, giving his hand a comforting squeeze before following the Blue Fairy into an adjoining room

A moment later the Blue Fairy returned, a steely look in her eyes. "There is another matter I need to discuss with you."

Rumplestiltskin stared intently but did not say anything, allowing her to continue.

"Neverland has an even more delicate balance of natural laws than this land. I will not have you disrupt it with magic," the Blue Fairy cautioned her tone austere.

"I am not leaving here without it."

The Blue Fairy took a deep, calming breath before continuing."I did not say you could not bring magic, Rumplestiltskin.Your curse is strong enough that it will persist in either world, even if I do not want it to.You will maintain the little magic you have managed to harness here. But, you will not use it."

"Not happening," Rumplestiltskin clipped; the chance that they would come across obstacles in this new land that would require magic to overcome was great, and he was not keen on harming their odds when his son's life was at stake.

The Blue Fairy sighed; she had truly hoped it would not come down to this.

"How about a deal, then?"


	5. Chapter 5

Rumplestiltskin stared at her for a long moment, tapping the fingers of one hand against the pad of his thumb.  He motioned for her to continue.

"If you can abstain from using the limited amount of magic you have, if you can maintain self- _control_ while in Neverland, I will ensure that upon your return you may work to regain your full powers without opposition from the fairies."

A life of magic without her interference; Rumplestiltskin liked the sound of that.  However, he was not foolish enough to walk into a deal without fully learning the dynamics.

"And if I use it?"

"You will never wield magic again, in any world. If you try to obtain some, you will be opposed, severely."

Rumplestiltskin mentally weighed the ultimatum: A life of uncontested magic, or a life completely devoid of it?  With unparalleled and unopposed magic, he could ensure that no harm ever befell his son, or Belle, again...

He was awarded a few extra moments to consider the deal when Belle reentered the sitting room.  She had replaced his pants and dress shirt with a pair of blue jeans and a breezy, black long-sleeve top.  On her arm draped a slender, forest green tweed jacket.

She moved to stand beside Rumplestiltskin, leaning so that their shoulders brushed lightly.

They required the fairies' magic to travel to Neverland, and Rumplestiltskin did not put it past the Blue Fairy to refuse to transport them if he rejected her deal.  It would not be the first time she sacrificed others' happiness in favor of doing what was right.  She was a wise, powerful woman driven by morals alone.

"Deal."

The Blue Fairy nodded solemnly, holding out her hand for him to shake.  Rumplestiltskin smirked slightly at the gesture, stretching out his own hand.  He could not resist giving hers a quick, painful squeeze before letting his hand drop back to his side.

A tiny gasp echoed from the hallway.  The three of them whirled about, startled at having been overheard.

Nova, in all the glory of a wrinkled white sweater and pleated skirt, stood in the entrance to the sitting room, a look of sheer terror on her face.

Rumplestiltskin felt his mouth stretch in a wide grin as he realized how suspicious this all must seem to the clumsy fairy: the wisest and most well-respected of the fairies making a deal with the Dark One in the dead of night.

"Nova, I was just about to wake you." The Blue Fairy spoke, slowly approaching the petrified slip of a fairy.

"What—what's going on?" Nova whispered, her eyes darting between Rumplestiltskin and the Blue Fairy, and landing with a confused furrow of her brow on the young woman at the former imp's side.

"There is something Rumplestiltskin and Belle must do, something very important, and they need our help," the Blue Fairy calmly explained.  Nova's eyes widened even further; they were going to _help_ the Dark One, the wicked imp whose name seemed to be whispered at every scene of disaster? 

"You know I would not ask if I did not think it the right thing to do, Nova."

The younger fairy glanced once more at Belle and Rumplestiltskin, briefly wondering how the woman could stand so fearlessly near the crooked man, before nodding her head shakily. "What do you need me to do?"

"We are going to help these two leave this world for another.  Have you managed to reclaim some of your magic?" The Blue Fairy asked, smiling gratefully at Nova's cooperation.

Nova nodded, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.  The Blue Fairy smiled, and approached the doorway leading to the hallway.  She stopped just before it, motioning for Nova to follow.  Placing her hands along one side of the doorframe, and directing Nova to do the same on the other side, the Blue Fairy turned to address Rumplestiltskin and Belle.

"Nova and I are going to open a portal to Neverland," and as she said this, the air within the doorway seemed to wave lightly, as though the fairies had cast a heat wave.

"I must warn you: Neverland, though a beautiful land, possesses an unexpected darkness.  The longer you stay, the more you will forget." 

"Forget what?" Belle asked, worry creasing her forehead.  She and Rumplestiltskin's eyes met each other's for a brief moment.

"Details of your past, memories..." The Blue Fairy's gaze traveled to Rumplestiltskin.  He was a cursed man; Neverland was bound to react differently to him. His past was composed of far more darkness than light.  She only hoped that they would not be in Neverland long enough for that darkness to consume him.

"What must we do to get there?"  Belle asked determinedly, her eyes now trained on the doorway and filled with a mixture of awe and slight trepidation.

"You must recall your happiest memory," the Blue Fairy explained, watching Rumplestiltskin as his brow furrowed. "Nova and I will ensure that it carries you in the right direction."

Rumplestiltskin moved to stand before the doorway, his forehead lined with concentration.  He reached into the back of his mind, searching for whatever could be his happiest memory. But all he seemed to encounter were the twisted deals and ruined lives that littered his past, all the sins he had committed so that he could find his son...

 _His son_. Rumplestiltskin shoved a hand into his jacket pocket, closing his fist around the silver bracelet that lay inside. 

The haze suddenly waved more energetically, and in the dim candlelight of the room he could see the outline of a woman slowly materializing. 

_She stood facing a lit hearth, wearing a modest beige frock, her long, dark curls hanging down her back._

"Ciora." Rumplestiltskin whispered.

_The woman turned around, a soft smile lighting her face as she rested a hand on her swollen belly._

"This isn't real," Rumplestiltskin breathed, reaching out to touch the haze, which felt as solid as a sheet of glass.

"It is as real as you want it to be," the Blue Fairy responded softly.

Rumplestiltskin turned his gaze away from the memory, training it instead on the fairies framing the doorway.  He felt a heat crawl up his neck; he wished they would not look so intently.  The memory started to fade, its lines and edges becoming blurry.  His eyes darted to Belle. 

Her features were soft, her mouth lifted in a gentle smile as she gazed upon his memory.  Her eyes looked the way they had when he caught her in his arms an eternity ago: filled with a sweet sort of awe, and tenderness.

Rumplestiltskin returned his gaze to the memory, willing his mind to focus.  The memory flickered again.  His hand twitched slightly toward it, wanting to pull the vision back from the darkness into which it seemed to be slipping.  He pressed his lips together, letting his eyes slide closed for a moment.  Gradually, the memory started to glow more brightly, its images growing clearer.

_Rumplestiltskin approached his wife, his own soft smile matching hers.  He trailed the backs of his knuckles gently along her cheek, before bringing his hand to rest over where their unborn child lay, his fingers splayed._

_They both laughed suddenly, Ciora bringing her own hand to rest over her husband's.  Smiling widely, Rumplestiltskin knelt before her, resting his head against her stomach._

The image in the doorway flickered; Rumplestiltskin clenched his jaw as he felt the memory slipping through his mind's fingers.

"You knew, somehow.  That the child would be a boy."  The Blue Fairy spoke softly.

"Yes," Rumplestiltskin murmured, his own lips stretching into a tentative smile.

 _Rumplestiltskin_ pressed _a soft kiss to his wife's belly._

"I'd never felt so..."

"Proud." The Blue Fairy finished for him, smiling at the couple in the memory.

Without tearing his gaze from the memory, Rumplestiltskin nodded.

"Hold on to that thought."

And as though with a will of their own, Rumplestiltskin's feet carried him toward the doorway.  His eyelids slid closed.

A warm breeze passed over his form, and when he opened his eyes he was met not with the image of himself embracing his wife and unborn child, but a maze of brilliant green willows, their leaves glistening in the rays of golden sunlight that broke through the forest canopy.

_Neverland._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I want to produce "Hooked" into a FREE fan audiobook for all you wonderful readers (both here and on fanfiction.net) who have enjoyed this story. It will be completed with sound effects, music, and amazing voice talents! Everyone is volunteering their time to make this happen, so this is truly a labor of love. 
> 
> At this point, I have nearly all the roles filled, except for ONE; The role of Rumplestiltskin. I am putting an audition out for the character. If you know any guys interested in volunteering their time to play the role, who have access to some kind of studio (even a make-shift one), and can match Robert Carlyle's version of the character as closely as possible, please PM me.
> 
> To get a better idea of what I want to do with "Hooked", check out some of the other fan works I've produced [HERE.](https://www.youtube.com/user/Promise171/videos?sort=dd&view=0&shelf_id=0)
> 
> In the meantime, we're going to Neverland! :-D


	6. Chapter 6

Vines of multi-colored flowers wrapped around the huge trunks, their vibrant reds and oranges blazing like flames in the afternoon sunlight.  Chains of mushrooms emitted a soft cerulean glow amongst the knobby roots strewn about the forest floor.  In the distance, tiny yellow will-o'-the-wisps danced about in the dark shade cast by the tree canopy.

A soft gasp behind Rumplestiltskin told him that Belle had arrived.  She walked forward to stand beside him, her mouth agape as she took in their surroundings.  Although no wind blew, the willow's leaves seemed to whisper together, as though excited at the new arrival.

For a moment they simply stood there, simultaneously mesmerized and intimidated by this new environment.  Clearing his throat slightly, Rumplestiltskin offered Belle his arm.  "Shall we?"

She looped her arm through the crook of his elbow, smiling softly as they took their first steps into the Neverland Forest.

They walked for several hours, helping each other over the moss-covered boulders and logs which occasionally obstructed their path.  Some of the flowers turned their petal-crowned heads curiously as the couple passed.  Every now and then a vine would linger just a little longer than natural on their shoulders.  Even the tiny, colorful finches they startled in their path did not fly very far, their curiosity keeping them only a branch out of reach.

With every steep hill the couple climbed and treacherous ledge they rounded, Rumplestiltskin felt evermore grateful that he had healed his lame knee before traveling to Neverland.  Had he neglected to do so, he would have been too focused on maintaining his own balance to help Belle maintain hers.

She was terribly clumsy, though not from a lack of grace; rather, she could not seem to tear her bright eyes from the towering treetops or the multi-colored birds which flitted between them, and so fell at the complete mercy of the stones and raised roots which peppered their path.

Rumplestiltskin could not hold back a chuckle as she tripped once more over another obstacle, gripping his arm to keep herself upright.  She glanced up at him sheepishly, a light blush painting her cheeks.

They continued walking; Belle seemed to redouble her efforts to tread without tripping, her hold on Rumplestiltskin's arm now more out of affection than necessity.

"Rum?" 

He turned his head toward her in acknowledgement, smirking when she did not notice because her eyes were glued to the forest path. "Yes?"

"Wh-what deal did you make with the Blue Fairy?" She asked, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

Rumplestiltskin inhaled slowly.  Belle deserved honesty.  She deserved to know that magic was still on his mind, even if it turned her away from him.

"She permitted me to bring the little magic I managed to harness here." 

_You coward_ , he silently berated himself.  Belle looked up at him, her brow furrowed slightly.

"In return for...?" Belle prompted, her eyes scanning his face.

"Restraint, frugality. It is the only magic available to me here; it cannot be replenished." He explained nonchalantly, his eyes tracing over the scenery.

_Bloody_ _stupid_ _coward_.

"I see," Belle murmured, her eyes still focused on his features, and Rumplestiltskin found he could not quite meet her piercing gaze.

He was saved from further explanation when they reached a break in the trees.  Squinting slightly in the bright orange rays of the setting sun, they emerged from the forest into a vast meadow.  Bushes of wildflowers and cattails swayed gaily in a breeze that Rumplestiltskin and Belle did not feel.

"It's so... _open_." Belle breathed with an amazement and relief that made Rumplestiltskin wonder just how much she remembered of her captivity in Storybrooke's psych ward.

"How about we stay here for the night?  It's nearly dusk," Rumplestiltskin suggested, setting down his own rucksack and helping Belle remove hers.  Belle nodded, her wide eyes still taking in their surroundings.

Rumplestiltskin began clearing a small area of vegetation to build a fire.  Belle, finally dragging her gaze away from the breathtaking scenery, started collecting twigs and sticks for kindling. 

The sun had just set by the time they had a strong fire burning in the makeshift pit.  Belle was packing the box of matches back into her rucksack when a soft "oh!" of surprise left her lips. A moment later she held up a thin pocketknife, throwing Rumplestiltskin a puzzled look.

"I would rather not leave you unarmed, should we become separated." Rumplestiltskin explained matter-of-factly, adding more kindling to the fire.

"I see," Belle murmured, carefully pulling the blade from its sheath.  Rumplestiltskin watched, smirking slightly, as she held the weapon in her palm, testing its weight.  She curled her fingers about the hilt, brow furrowing as she tried to imagine using it.  She tentatively swiped at the empty air before her.

"If you wield it like that, you'll be defeated in seconds," Rumplestiltskin chuckled, leaning back to better survey her.  Belle scowled, biting back a smile.

"Well then, oh mighty Dark One, would you care to demonstrate?" She asked cheekily, her voice shaking slightly with restrained laughter.

Rumplestiltskin raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "You mean, the royal tutors did not teach you how to properly brandish a weapon?"

"Heavens, no! Not when there were such _important_ subjects like embroidery and table etiquette to learn," Belle responded in an insincerely scandalized tone.

"Well, I suppose it is better late than never," Rumplestiltskin relented, chuckling as he rose to his feet and approached Belle.

"Show me how you would hold the knife when faced with an attacker," he instructed, his tone more serious.

Belle closed her fist tightly around the hilt, with the blade sticking out at the same end as her thumb.

Without warning Rumplestitlskin grasped her hand and twisted it down, easily withdrawing the weapon from her grip.  Belle gasped in surprise, and felt her face slightly redden at how quickly she had been defeated.  Her embarrassment ebbed a little when Rumplestiltskin gave her a reassuring smile, handing the knife back.

"Make a fist around the hilt, this time with the blade protruding from the opposite end.  When you wield it like this, you decrease your attacker's chances of taking it from you.  Understand?"

Belle nodded, adjusting her grip to match Rumplestiltskin's description.

"Now, show me how you would attack an enemy."

Holding the knife as Rumplestitlskin directed, Belle swiped the blade through the air.

"No, no, when you swipe you leave too much room for your enemy to block the attack and disarm you. Here, try this."

Belle's stomach fluttered lightly as Rumplestiltskin stood behind her and closed his hand over her own, causing her to nearly miss his next instructions.

"When you attack your enemy, do so with a straight jab," he jerked their joined hands forward into the empty air, "Like this."  Rumplestitlskin released her hand, stepping aside to watch her try it alone.

Belle nodded, not entirely trusting her voice, and repeated the jabbing motion.  Her stomach twisted slightly at the thought of actually using the weapon against another person, but she had been a helpless victim once before and was not so keen to let history repeat itself.  She jabbed at the air a few more times, until Rumplestitlskin claimed he was satisfied that she could use it to protect herself properly.

With a light sigh, Belle dropped the weapon into her rucksack, hoping she would never have to use it but relieved she knew how.  She sat next to Rumplestiltskin in front of the fire, leaning back on her arms and letting her gaze take in Neverland's night sky.  Only a handful of twinkling scars punctuated the expanse of blackness, but there were two moons: one hanging on its side like a sickle, and the other round and full.

A long, chilling howl, similar to but not entirely reminiscent of a wolf's, echoed in the far distance; Belle subconsciously scooted closer to Rumplestiltskin's side.

"Do you think he's scared out there, your son?" Belle asked quietly.  A light breeze whispered against the backs of their necks, carrying with it more despairing notes of the distant howling.

"Even if he is, my son has never acted with anything but courage," Rumplestiltskin answered.  He stared into the fire, leaning toward the warmth slightly with his elbows on his knees. "I don't believe I've even seen him cry.  Not since he was a babe," he added quietly.

"You haven't seen him cry? Not once?" Belle asked, her brow crinkled slightly.

Rumplestiltskin shook his head. "Bae has behaved more like a man than a child since he was very young.  I have learned more from him than he has from me." Rumplestiltskin spoke quietly, his tone laced with pride. 

"You admire him," Belle stated, smiling softly.

Rumplestiltskin nodded, his gaze fixated on the bright flames before him. More often than not Bae's courage served as his father's crutch, holding his weak form up when it seemed the whole world would have preferred it six feet under.  The thought filled Rumplestiltskin with gratitude as well as shame.  No son should ever have to carry such a burden: to worry that his father would crumble at the slightest pressure. He wanted Bae to trust him; he wanted to be _worthy_ of that trust.

"We will find him, Rum." Belle leaned her head against his shoulder, hoping he believed her words as much as she did.  He did not respond, but his posture seemed to relax slightly at her touch.

They sat like that for a while, until the flames began to diminish and Belle moved to stoke them back to life, adding more kindling from the pile.

"Belle?" 

She looked up from her task of restoring the fire, eyebrows raised.

"What was your happiest memory?" Rumplestiltskin asked, his eyes watching Belle's full lips as they stretched into a warm smile. 

"It was a memory from my childhood," she began, returning to her seat beside Rumplestiltskin.

"I was seven years old.  My parents and I were in the castle gardens.  My mother was reading aloud my favorite book, _King Arthur_ , while my father and I playacted the story."

"Let me guess, you were Guinevere?" Rumplestiltskin asked, smiling as Belle laughed.

"Goodness, no!  I was much more ambitious than that: I was Arthur, the brave hero who altered the tragic fate of his people." She answered, drawing back her shoulders and puffing out her chest with mock bravado.

Of course, he should have known.  "How...eerily prophetic," Rumplestiltskin quipped lightly.

Belle chuckled softly, playfully swatting him on the arm, before continuing her tale.

"We portrayed every daring swordfight of the Knights of the Round Table, every magical spell cast by the wizard Merlin." She waved the stick in her hand as though it were a wand, chuckling lightly.  "Sometimes my mother would pretend to stumble over a word, so that I would have to practice my own reading and sound out the syllables for her."  She smiled softly, shaking her head.

"But my favorite part was when Arthur finally frees Excalibur from its stone sheath.  My father held a stick tight in his grasp.  I pulled once, to no avail.  I tried again; the sword did not budge.  But on the third attempt," Belle held the stick she had been using to stoke the flames high into the air, grinning broadly, "Excalibur was mine!"

She laughed freely, recalling how her mother had clapped loudly as her father hoisted his young daughter onto his shoulders, shouting to all the land that Arthur was king!

Belle's laughter soon quieted, a soft sadness entering her gaze.  She slowly lowered the stick to her lap, her eyes following.

"That was the...last time we were all together, before my mother died..." She swallowed hard, unable to say any more.

Rumplestiltskin had assumed Belle's mother had passed when she was too young to remember, perhaps when she was born.  She had not mentioned her once during their fireside (or tabletop) chats at the Dark Castle.  He now realized that her silence on the matter was not due to an absence of memory, but an abundance of hurt. 

He had a sudden urge to tell her how close she had come to losing her only living parent, to confess how close he had been to unwittingly doubling her pain when he nearly beat her father to death.

But then, she might leave him...and as warranted as that response would be, he could not bear to watch it unfold, not here, not after only one day of having her with him again.

Rumplestiltskin hesitantly placed a hand over one of her own, relieved when she turned her hand over and entwined their fingers.  They sat in silence for a while, their eyes trained on the dwindling flames and their minds remembering the loved ones they had lost.

They were both pulled from their bittersweet reverie when a wide, unbidden yawn escaped Belle's lips. Rumplestiltskin rose, clearing a space upwind of the fire's smoke for them to sleep.  He gestured for Belle to lie down, covering her with one of the flannel blankets they had packed.

Rumplestiltskin lied down a couple feet across from her. She smiled softly at him, tucking an arm beneath her head.  No words could convey the consuming rush of gratitude and amazement and _love_ he felt for this woman who should flee, but instead follows willingly; this woman who could be nestled in a warm bed worlds away, but instead lay on a hard patch of earth in a strange land.  Rumplestiltskin tentatively brought a hand to her cheek, his fingers hovering over the warm flesh.  Slowly, he traced a finger along the line of her jaw, still amazed that it did not pass through her like a mirage, that she was here, with him, alive and safe. 

He watched the firelight glinting in her auburn curls and reflecting in her brilliant turquoise eyes, mesmerized.

"You are so beautiful," he heard himself whisper.

Belle smiled warmly, reaching across the space between them to wrap his hand in one of her own.  Rumplestiltskin watched as her eyelids slowly slid closed, eventually falling asleep himself to the sound of her soft, even breathing.


	7. Chapter 7

The sky above the sleeping couple slowing lightened, its deep indigo melting into a more peaceful turquoise. Tendrils of a light morning mist swirled lazily over the meadow. Tiny chirps punctuated the morning silence as brightly colored finches weaved through the cattails, foraging for a hearty breakfast of Neverbugs. 

A shrill, bloodcurdling scream pierced the early morning air. Rumplestiltskin jolted upright, his heart banging painfully against his chest. His gaze darted about frantically, his confusion amplifying when his eyes fell on Belle, sleeping undisturbed. Removing himself from beneath the flannel blanket he and Belle had ended up sharing in their sleep, Rumplestitlskin rose to his knees, his eyes scrutinizing their surroundings for the source of the scream. Belle began to stir slightly.

“Rum?” She murmured groggily, rubbing a hand over her eyes. Rumplestitlskin did not answer, turning his head to take in the rest of the meadow's expanse. “What is it?” Belle prompted, more alert.

“I thought I heard...Belle, did you—” Another long, despairing scream echoed around them, sounding farther away. Rumplestitlskin jumped to his feet, his eyes scanning the dark tree line behind them. Something about the cry sounded familiar; he was certain he could name its owner, if only he could see them... Belle watched him, sitting up slowly, her brow furrowed in bewilderment. “What's wrong?” 

Rumplestiltskin's gaze snapped to Belle's for a moment, confusion and something like fear whirling in its depth. “You didn't hear—” Rumplestiltskin's voice broke off as the unmistakable squelching sound of a blade puncturing flesh reached his ears. A sign of movement on a nearby rotting tree stump caught his attention, and he cautiously took a step closer. Thick, crimson liquid slid sinuously between the rivets in the bark.

After a moment's hesitation, Rumplestiltskin stretched out a hand toward the soaked wood. 

“Rum?” Belle called out from behind him, rising to her own feet. But he did not answer her, staring silently at the blood which coated his fingers like syrup. Its harsh metallic scent invaded his nostrils; he could taste bile in the back of his throat.

Rumplestiltskin heard a light rustle of leaves as Belle stepped closer; terror seized him. “Belle, stay back!” He yelled, whirling around to see Belle skid to a stop, her face ashen and fearful in the first rays of sunlight peering over the horizon. He turned back to the tree stump.

The blood was gone.

His insides twisting, Rumplestiltskin looked down at his hand. It bore no scarlet stain. He rubbed his fingers together, as though the clean skin were the illusion and the blood the elusive reality.

The snap of a twig behind Rumplestiltskin told him that Belle had disregarded his warning. “What is it?” She asked, her voice breathy with apprehension. “What did you see?”

Rumplestiltskin scanned their surroundings again, his eyes squinted slightly. “Nothing,” he murmured, glancing once more at his stainless hand. 

“Must have been a trick of the light,” he added in response to Belle's disbelieving frown. She scrutinized him, opening her mouth to speak, but Rumplestiltskin did not afford her the time, briskly walking back to their campsite. With a sigh, Belle followed, making a mental note to confront him about this strange behavior later. He began scooping soil into their fire pit with his foot to smother the embers still burning from the previous night, while Belle refolded their blanket and returned it to her rucksack. Before she could tie the bag closed, Rumplestiltskin took it from her, fishing a hand inside and pulling out the little pocketknife he had taught her how to wield the night before.

“Keep this on you,” he murmured, pressing the weapon into her palm.

“Rum...” Belle sighed lightly, opening her mouth in protest.

“Please,” Rumplestitlskin pleaded tiredly, smiling softly in gratitude when Belle curled her fingers around the knife. She placed it in her jeans pocket, shaking her head slightly.

The sun had only just surpassed the horizon when they resumed their trek through the Neverland Forest.

“According to legend,” Rumplestiltskin began as he helped Belle over a large, moss-covered tree trunk strewn across their path, “Neverland is an island. We'll be able to properly get our bearings once we find water, assuming we do not encounter any sign of civilization before then.”

“Why haven't we seen anyone else yet, Rum? It feels like we're the only two people here...” Belle asked, looking around at their surroundings, a slight frown curving her lips. With a chill Rumplestiltskin thought back to the blood on the tree stump. He quelled the thought, though, not wishing to worry her. 

“I don't know. Perhaps my reputation has simply preceded us here, as well,” he quipped, smiling at Belle's soft chuckle.

They continued walking in comfortable silence, the rustling leaves beneath their feet the only sound passing between them. After a while, when the sun was just beginning its slow western descent, Belle's attention to the path seemed to dwindle again, and the silence became filled with soft thumps as her feet caught on risen roots and stones. A particularly loud thump, followed by a brief “oh!” of surprise, sounded behind Rumplestiltskin. Turning around, he was surprised to find that Belle's attention was absorbed not in her surroundings, but in a small book and pencil she held in her hands. He recognized the book as one of his unused pocket ledgers.

“What are you doing?” He asked, smirking lightly. Belle looked up suddenly, blushing prettily at being caught.

“The Blue Fairy said the longer we're here, the more we'll forget...So, I'm writing down some important things for us to remember.” She grinned, turning the little book toward Rumplestiltskin so he could see her neat, looping scrawl. 

Name: Belle  
Age: Lost count at 26   
Place of birth: Avonlea  
Reason for traveling to Neverland: To help Rumpel Rumple my true love find his son.

Rumplestiltskin laughed loudly at her ingenuity, causing Belle to grin more widely, her blush deepening. “I must say, the idea has its merits,” he complimented, smirking at her attempts to spell his name, “But I doubt we will be here long enough to suffer any serious amnesia.”

“Well, it is better to err on the side of caution, just in case,” she said, smiling. A darkness overshadowed some of the mirth in her gaze then. “I forgot who I was once, and I'd rather not repeat that experience,” she added quietly.

Rumplestiltskin opened his mouth to speak but his actions were cut short when a loud crack wrenched through the air, causing Belle to shriek and both of them to instinctually cover their heads as a large piece of bark flew off a nearby tree.

Rumplestitlskin crouched low to the ground, pulling Belle with him. He cautiously stretched his neck high enough to see over the tops of the shrubs in their path. About forty meters away stood a small crowd of raggedly-dressed men, facing their direction. One of them stretched out his arm, his fist clutching a flintlock pistol... 

Rumplestitlskin pulled Belle to him, slouching even lower to shield as much of her as possible as another shot rang out. Clutching her hand, he jumped to his feet and led them sprinting deeper into the forest, followed by shouting and the unmistakable sound of running feet.

Their heavy breathing the only sound passing between them, Rumplestiltskin and Belle propelled their feet forward as fast as they could. It was with immense relief that Rumplestitlskin realized this part of the forest floor seemed particularly smooth and devoid of protruding roots. In fact, the roots seemed to have vanished completely, as though the willows were trying to help them evade their violent pursuers. They ran for what felt like years, stopping occasionally to lean against the trees and listen for any sign of their followers. Every stop was short-lived; they still heard the harsh voices of their trackers and the crunching of leaves beneath their feet. Somewhere along the way they chucked off their rucksacks, the decrease in weight enhancing their speed.

After a while the territory around them began to resemble more mountainous terrain, the walls of trees now punctuated by enormous limestone boulders. Rumplestiltskin's lungs felt like fire as they bolted up the side of a steep hill, and the ragged panting her heard beside him indicated that Belle was fairing little better. 

They sprinted onwards, their knees throbbing under the strain. Just when they felt certain they could run no more, they spotted it. Incised in the side of an enormous boulder was a narrow cave, hopefully deep enough to conceal them both. As they approached, the vines draped across the entrance gently swayed aside, as though in a gesture of hospitality.

Rumplestiltskin yanked Belle in front of him, encouraging her inside and quickly following after. The cave was about a meter wide, and seemed to stretch at least four meters back. They flattened themselves against its limestone walls, listening as their pursuers' running footsteps approached. A large, bearded man ran past, not noticing the crevasse in the boulder's surface, his cutlass swinging wildly at his hip. As the others' shouts and footsteps grew closer, Rumplestiltskin leaned closer to Belle, placing a hand on her shoulder and silently ushering her farther into the cave.

“Rum...” Belle whispered, but he did not turn, his gaze fixated on the other men who were now sprinting past the cave's entrance. He could still hear several men shouting in the distance.

“Rumplestiltskin...” She whimpered, and the sheer terror laced in her voice compelled him to turn around. Her wide eyes were staring not at the entrance to the cave, but at the stone walls which encased them. Her hands were twisting in the hem of her black shirt; she was trembling.

“Belle?” Rumplestiltskin breathed, but she did not appear to hear him. In the orange sunlight leaking through the vines covering the entrance, he saw her arms wind themselves around her waist, her eyes darting frantically between the caves' walls. 

Rumplestiltskin reached a hand toward her arm. When his fingers brushed the crook of her elbow, she jerked away with a cry, shrinking back against the limestone, “No! No, please...no medicine....” He heard her mumble, her eyes staring at him but seeing someone else, someone with a white coat and a vial filled with pain...

Something inside Rumplestiltskin shattered when he saw two tears roll down her cheeks.

He crouched before her, careful not to startle her again with his touch. “Belle, shh... It's all right; you're not there anymore, you're here, with me,” he whispered, his fear mounting when she shook her head, her quick breaths beginning to sound more likes gasps.

“Please, please, let me out—I need to—I can't—I can't breathe,” she whimpered, her gasping breaths now punctuated by tiny sobs. Her eyes gaped at the stone walls, and Rumplestiltskin knew she was seeing ones covered in cloth and padding. He wanted more than anything to grant her plea, to pull her back into the open air, but he could not. They were still being tracked.

Not knowing what else to do, Rumplestiltskin pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her shaking form. He could hear the men's shouts outside, but they seemed farther now. She stiffened in his embrace, and he moved to withdraw, when she suddenly clasped her arms tight around his shoulders, clutching him even closer. He could feel her tear-stained cheek against his neck.

He rubbed his hand in circles on her back, but her gasping breaths did not slow; he feared she would lose consciousness soon if he could not calm her breathing.

“Belle,” he whispered into her ear, “Belle, I need you to listen to me. Can you do that, love?”  
She whimpered, clinging to him more tightly.

“Try to slow your breathing, dear. Follow mine.” He gently pulled one of her arms from around his neck, placing her hand between their bodies and holding it against his chest. He inhaled and exhaled slowly, rubbing his other hand between her shoulder blades. 

At first, she did not respond, merely clutching him with her free arm and sobbing pleas to let her leave, to take her away... But as he continued to breathe slowly, encouraging her to mirror him, he realized her breaths began to sound less gasping, her mumbling quieted.

“That's right, Belle. Breathe just like me.” He felt her chest expand against his own; they exhaled together. They sat like that, breathing as one with an occasional hiccup from Belle, until her arm slowly loosened its hold on his shoulders. She pulled away slightly, keeping her hand folded beneath Rumplestiltskin's on his chest. Her petite form still trembled, and when she turned her head to look at the cave walls, Rumplestiltskin cupped her cheek, keeping her gaze fixed on his own. “Just look at me, dear” he murmured.

He was not going to kill Regina; he was going to destroy her, starting with her mind, finishing the job she had tried to start on Belle.

She sniffled a few times, her fist still clutching the front of his jacket. “I'm sorry...it's just...I spent a year in that awful place...” 

Belle's words sent a jolt of fear rippling through him. A year? Oh, gods...she did not know. He had not mentioned how long the curse had lasted when he answered her questions, had not explained that the savior had only been an infant when it was cast. She did not know she had been a resident in Storybrooke's psychiatric ward for nearly three decades.

He pulled back from her slightly, opening his mouth to speak....before closing it again. He could not tell her, not like this, not here. He gently pulled them both to their feet, unsure if his actions were a sign of cowardice or chivalry.

“I think they're gone,” he murmured, walking toward the cave entrance. He stepped outside, and when Belle followed he saw her relax visibly. The sun hovered over the western horizon, casting a hazy red glow through the trees.

They began to follow a different path, perpendicular to their former one lest their trackers fall back and retrace their steps. They moved cautiously, listening for any sound of pursuit as well as trying to avoid tripping over any obstacles concealed in the waning sunlight.  
Something large and silver suddenly whizzed past their heads; as it clattered against a stone ledge they realized it was a cutlass.

Whirling about, they ran in an opposite direction. Branches and vines scraped and scuffed their flesh and they sprinted once more along the forest path. The sun slid beneath the horizon, the absence of light causing Belle and Rumplestiltskin to stumble over protruding roots and stones in their path. 

“Rum,” Belle gasped as they sprinted, “Your magic! Use it!”

“I—I can't,” he panted, his muscles screaming in protest as they ascended a steep hill. 

“Now's not—the time—to be frugal!” Belle cried between ragged breaths, sweat sliding down her temples. “Rum, they're trying to kill—”

“I can't, Belle!” He snapped; he stopped running, pulling Belle's arm so that she turned to face him. “If I use the magic here, I'll never be able to use it again, anywhere,” he rasped, his arms clutching Belle's shoulders.

“What? But—but you said—” She stared at him, eyes wide with shock and hurt.

“I lied,” he interrupted, and were it not for the fire burning in his exhausted lungs, his words would have been a shout.

Their trackers' yells echoed harshly in the distance; a shot rang out. 

“Rum, you must—” Belle started, but Rumplestiltskin cut her off. 

“No. We can outrun them.” He grabbed her hand, willing his mind to ignore the look of betrayal marring her features, and resumed their frantic sprint through the forest. Their legs quivered as they scaled the remainder of the hill, finally reaching the more level ground of a rocky shelf; their pace quickened.

As they rounded the narrow ledge, the ground suddenly collapsed from beneath their feet.

The rustle of leaves and the dull thuds of loosened stones accompanied their grunts and cries as they cascaded down the steep slope of the rocky hillside. Their arms flailed as they fell, reaching for something, anything, to hold onto, but it was no use. Rumplestiltskin felt something slide from beneath his jacket as he plummeted down the slope.

When they finally reached the bottom of the hill, Rumplestiltskin's momentum propelled him into a tree trunk, knocking the wind from his lungs and causing his vision to go dark. 

He came to slowly, his vision returning hazily. He could feel the ground trembling slightly beneath him as their pursuers approached. Squinting against the pain that seemed to consume his whole body, he could make out Belle's sprawled form about a meter away. She did not stir.  
He heard footsteps languidly approach his side; a moment later a heavy black boot obscured his view. 

Grunting faintly, Rumplestiltskin tried to lift his head, but the effort was wasted as the boot pressed against the bottom of his chin, forcing his head higher with a jerk. His vision blurred slightly as he took in the slim frame donning a crimson coat with intricate gold lacing standing above him. Attached to the end of the man’s left hand was a polished, silver hook. 

“Rise to your feet, Dark One.”


	8. Chapter 8

Ice cold chains of magic coiled around what Rumplestiltskin imagined must be his soul, constricting it in an unbreakable vice, before snaking down his arms and legs. The feeling was foreign and invasive; his mind and body were now two completely separate entities, the former no more powerful than a blade of straw and the latter a slave to another's will. His muscles and bones contorted under the command of the curse, heaving him to his feet. His body slowly turned to face his compeller; the strength of all of Rumplestiltskin's willpower did not cause even a moment's hesitation in his actions. 

"Very good," the man with the hook drawled, a malevolent smirk twisting his thin lips. He was thin and taller than Rumplestiltskin, but not by much. Despite his slender build, the other six men seemed to revere and perhaps fear him, maintaining at least a meter's distance from where he stood. Dark, wavy hair rested on his shoulders, looking like pools of oil against the crimson cloth of his elaborate coat. The long, bejeweled fingers of his right hand were curled around the hilt of Rumplestiltskin's dagger.

But the feature which stood out most, besides the sinister silver hook attached to the end of his left arm, was his eyes. Were they not currently scanning Rumplestiltskin's face, he would have thought they belonged to a corpse.

"How do you—" Rumplestitlskin began, his voice harsh and raspy, before Hook interrupted.

"Ah, ah," he waved the dagger reproachfully, like a parent wagging a finger at their misbehaving child. "No talking," Hook commanded, his lips parting in a primal leer. 

Rumplestiltskin's lips snapped shut, his teeth clenched as though they had been wired shut.

"You will accompany us to my ship. You will not resist." Rumplestiltskin felt the command slide down his spine like sickly sweet molasses, and he could not suppress a slight shudder. His compeller grinned.

"What about this one, Cap'n Hook?" A burly man with a thick red beard asked gruffly, eyeing Belle's unmoving form on the forest floor. Rumplestiltskin's face flushed scarlet with hot anger as the pirate crouched forward to get a closer look.

"It's rotten luck to bring a woman aboard," a fat little man wearing a striped shirt piped in squeakily. His face was flushed and sweaty as he struggled to balance their discarded rucksacks on his back.

Hook's cold gaze trailed over Belle uninterestedly. "We'll bind her, ensure there's no chance she'll wake and follow. Then let the forest have her."

"You," Hook lazily pointed the dagger in Rumplestiltskin's direction, "Tie her up."

The burly man who had spoken before tossed Rumplestiltskin several coils of coarse rope, which his compelled arms caught easily. His legs kneeled beside Belle, and although the weight of what he was about to do nearly crushed him, he was grateful for the chance to assess the damage the fall had caused.

He turned her onto her back. She was breathing, and the relief which surged in his chest at the fact made him dizzy. It was too dark to make out the beginnings of the bruises which would undoubtedly pepper her soft skin, but he could see a thin trail of blood trickling from a wound toward the right of her forehead. He stretched his hand toward it.

"I said tie her up, not tend her wounds," Hook sneered, his crewmembers chuckling sycophantically.

Rumplestiltskin's arms turned Belle back onto her stomach, folding her arms across her lower back. He gently wound the rope about her thin wrists.

"Tighter."

Rumplestiltskin's hands yanked the rope taut, chafing her wrists and sending a wave of guilt rushing through him. Although a storm of fury raged within him, his compelled fingers were steady as they tied the ends of the rope, ensuring that Belle would not be able to untie them herself. Kneeling beside her feet now, he took the other length of rope and wound it securely about her ankles. At least her jeans would prevent them from being rubbed raw. 

When he finished binding Belle's feet together, he turned her gently onto her back once more. Her head wound still bled, but less freely. He softly ran his fingertips down her cheek. 

He was such a fool. He should have listened to her, should have used the magic to ward off their pursuers. And yet, he could not suppress the slight comfort that his continued possession of magic brought him. A bitter taste filled his mouth as he realized that, were the situation to repeat itself, he would likely make the same selfish decision again.

Sorrow and shame welled inside him as he thought of how frightened she would be when she woke alone and trapped. He brushed her hair from her face, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead.

"Do not dawdle, Dark One," Hook snapped. Rumplestiltskin froze, his lips a whisper from Belle's skin, and then felt his body pull himself upright. A prisoner in his own body, Rumplestiltskin rose to his feet, his eyes still glued to Belle's unconscious form.

"To the ship," Hook barked to his crewmembers, and they started down the forest path headed east. Revulsion twisted in Rumplestiltskin's stomach as his legs followed obediently. He threw one last look at Belle, willing her to understand, to forgive him, when he saw it. Lying on the ground a step or two from Belle was his son's bracelet.

He had carried it with him since the day his son had disappeared through the green portal, and it was with a fresh wave of grief and rage that he continued walking, unable to fight the compulsion long enough to retrieve it. 

As they walked through the forest in the direction of Hook's ship, Rumplestiltskin noticed with satisfaction the troublesome way the forest seemed to react to Hook's presence. Whereas the forest had seemed subtly inclined to aid Rumplestiltskin and Belle in their escape, it behaved devilishly toward the captain and his crew. The willows' roots protruded higher from the ground, catching the men around the ankles and sending them sprawling; vines twisted in the men's loose clothing and sashes, tearing and scratching with thorns Rumplestiltskin was sure had not been there before.

By the time they reached the shoreline, when the sky was just beginning to lighten in preparation for dawn, the crewmembers and captain alike looked as tattered and worn as one of Belle's favorite books. Rumplestiltskin, on the other hand, seemed to have been spared further injury completely.

A lone jolly boat bobbed in the rising tide, a rope tethering it to a nearby palm tree. Hook's crew lumbered toward it, settling themselves inside and lighting the small oil lamp which dangled off the tip of the bow. The more brawny of the men took hold of the oars, and the stout one assumed the position of the navigator. Their captain and his prisoner seated themselves last at the stern.

The rope anchoring the craft to the shore was cast aside, and they glided on the water toward a dark mass looming in the distance.

The Jolly Roger was less magnificent than Rumplestiltskin had been expecting, considering the grandeur of Hook's scarlet coat. It was large but not excessive; its gray sails were well-tended with only a couple patches here and there. On the bow hung a wooden carving of a beautiful mermaid, with a hook dangling from her throat.

When they were near enough to the ship's starboard side, the podgy navigator shouted a squeaky command to the crewmembers still aboard. Two thick ropes came flying from overhead; the crewmembers nearest where the ropes landed looped them through metal hoops located at the jolly boat's bow and stern. After several jostling yanks, accompanied by muffled shouts of "heave!" from above, the smaller craft was parallel with the ship's deck. 

Hook rose to his feet, his long legs easily helping him overstep the benches and ledge of the jolly boat. Although he would have preferred to simply launch himself overboard, Rumplestiltskin followed. He heard the remaining six crewmen bustle onto the deck behind him.

They stood silently, their eyes fastened to the figures of Hook and Rumplestiltskin; they seemed both apprehensive and eager, waiting with baited breath to see what would pass between their captain and this mysterious sorcerer.

Hook noticed the silence, and with an unexpected grace turned about on his heel to face them. 

"Gentlemen, is this a ship or a hippodrome?" He asked snidely, casually inspecting his hook in the brightening morning light. His tone was lightly sarcastic, but the darkness in his eyes as he trained them on his unmoving crew made them visibly flinch. Another moment of silence passed before the men collectively shouted "aye, aye!" and hurriedly returned to their tasks aboard the Jolly Roger.

Smirking slightly, Hook turned about and strode toward a set of double doors at the aft of the ship, beneath the platform on which the helm stood. Pressing his hook down on one of the brass handles, he pulled the door open. 

"Inside," he commanded, and those cold chains of magic wrapped around Rumplestiltskin's bones constricted and forced him to obey. Hook followed after him, shutting the door with a little more strength than absolutely necessary.

The inside of Hook's quarters was...cluttered. An assortment of books and objects--the most intriguing of which included a mangled, and apparently chewed, brass clock, a shrunken head, and an ornate ivory tobacco pipe—littered every surface, except a small desk on which a hand-drawn map of Neverland lay. The place was oddly cozy; it reminded Rumplestiltskin of his pawn shop in Storybrooke.

Hook walked over to the mahogany desk which held the map, sitting down in its high-back leather chair. He placed the dagger on the desk's surface, smirking as Rumplestiltskin's eyes immediately darted to it. He picked the dagger up again, tracing his hook along its crooked edge. The resulting screech of metal against metal made Rumplestiltskin's blood run cold.

"A rather impressive artifact, wouldn't you agree? Such...craftsmanship," Hook derided, smirking again before issuing what felt to Rumplestiltskin like his thousandth command: "Speak."  
"I think," Rumplestiltskin began slowly, his own lips twisting in a sneer, "it would look considerably more appealing lodged in your throat."

Hook chuckled darkly, the sound as hollow and lifeless as his eyes. "I think you are in no position to make such an observation, much less fulfill it." And as if to reiterate his point, he added sharply, "Sit."

The sheer simplicity of Hook's commands, as well as his compelled body's obedience, humiliated Rumplestiltskin. He felt lower than the mud caking the boots of the man who now controlled him. 

He sat down in the wooden chair before Hook's desk, making sure to upend an ink well in the process. Although Hook said nothing as the black liquid seeped into the map's yellow parchment, a muscle jumped in his temple. After a moment, he leaned forward, his black eyes languidly taking in Rumplestiltskin's appearance.

"I must say, you're not quite the formidable creature I'd been expecting. You seem rather...what is the euphemism these days? Ah yes, past your prime," he sneered, leaning back in his chair and bringing his hook to his jaw in contemplation.

"Tell me, what is the extent of your powers?" He asked, and even though he had delivered it as a question, Rumplestitlskin still felt the command rush through him.

"I have a limited amount of magic here. I do not possess the full abilities and strength of my curse." Rumplestitlskin explained, choosing to rely on truth as opposed to a lie. Perhaps his compeller would be more judicious, more hesitant in commanding him to utilize his magic, knowing it was in short supply. Hook's smirk disappeared at his words.

"Limited?" He asked, staring into Rumplestiltskin's face.

"Limited. As in restricted, constrained, the opposite of unlimited," Rumplestiltskin elaborated sardonically, speaking slowly as though to a child. Hook glared at him, an angry flush momentarily coloring his cheeks.

"Why have you come to Neverland, Dark One?" Hook asked flatly.

"I'm on holiday," Rumplestiltskin smirked.

"Bold, lying to your master," Hook responded, his lips stretching in a satisfied grin at the rage in Rumplestiltskin's eyes. "Speak truthfully."

"I am here to find my son," Rumplestiltskin explained shortly, hating the way his cursed body did not hesitate to obey. Hook scoffed.

"Ah...and here I thought those Lost Brats were orphans. I feel considerably less guilty about trying to kill them now." He smirked darkly, running the pads of his fingers over the rim of his silver hook. Rumplestiltskin watched him silently, his face a frozen mask that did not reflect the revulsion swelling inside him.

"Besides my crew, the Lost Boys are the only other humans in this land. And there is no chance you are related to the filthy Indian savages." Hook threw a quick disgusted glare at the drawing of several teepees on the map before him. 

"Yes," he continued, returning his gaze to Rumplestiltskin, "It must be one of the boys you seek. Unless you are the long-lost papa of one of my shipmates." Hook laughed loudly at the thought. Rumplestiltskin merely stared ahead, silent.

"It is curious, though...Even the newest of the Lost Boys has been here for at least a century." Hook spoke quietly, halfheartedly inspecting the dagger in the rising sunlight. "You certainly took your time." His eyes met Rumplestiltskin's, and for a moment they seemed to glow with the heat of an undisclosed fury, before they returned once more to their usual lifelessness. 

Rumplestiltskin did not respond, guilt now swimming alongside the rage he felt inside. 

"Smee!" Hook bellowed suddenly, his cold eyes on Rumplestiltskin. A moment later a short, plump man with a blue and white striped shirt came blundering through the door.

"Y-yes, Cap'n?" He stuttered, skidding to a halt beside Hook's desk.

"Please escort our guest to the brig," Hook ordered, "And keep a guard nearby."

"Aye, aye, Cap'n!" Smee replied, bringing a stubby-fingered hand to his head in a quick salute. He leaned over to grab Rumplestiltskin's shoulder; Rumplestiltskin jerked out of his reach, rising to his feet. 

He glared at Hook, opening his mouth to ask the question he had wanted to since Hook's first command for him to stand.

"How do you know of my curse?"

Hook grinned impishly, leaning his head against the back of his chair to better survey his puppet.

"Is there any realm your legend has not reached?" Hook asked in mock praise, bowing his head slightly.

Rumplestiltskin continued to glare at him. Hook chuckled deeply, leaning forward over his desk and steepling the fingers of his right hand against his hook. 

"Let's just say...a little bluebird told me," Hook leered, quirking an eyebrow as the anger in Rumplestiltskin's gaze increased tenfold.

The corners of Hook's mouth twitched slightly as Rumplestiltskin clenched his fists so tight they shook.

"You will follow Smee. You will not resist. You will remain where you are placed until I say otherwise," Hook commanded, smirking darkly.

Rumplestiltskin ground his teeth together as his body obediently followed the shorter man out of the captain's quarters.

Very few people knew about the relationship between the dagger and the curse, and Rumplestiltskin had a pretty solid idea which one possessed the magic and motive to betray him. 

If the myth was true and saying "I don't believe in fairies" did, indeed, kill a fairy, Rumplestiltskin would repeat the phrase with every breath until every single one of them had dropped dead. 

 

[](http://s1146.photobucket.com/user/promise7771/media/Hookedblkshirtv1_zpsyqjor1jj.png.html)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, how amazing is this cover art for our story?? My good friend and talented graphic design artist, DakotaBeor, made it! <3 
> 
> Some exciting news for those of you who have enjoyed this story on fanfiction.net, or are just stumbling on it for the first time here; I found someone to play the part of Rumplestiltskin for our fan-made audiobook, and he is AMAZING. He's such an incredible actor, and I couldn't be more pleased. He's recorded quite a bit of lines already, and I am extremely impressed with his talent. 
> 
> I'm also very excited to announce that the Prologue of this story is now available in audiobook for your enjoyment! You can listen [HERE.](https://www.youtube.com/user/Promise171/videos?view=0&shelf_id=0&sort=dd)
> 
> Please leave us your feedback and SUBSCRIBE to my YouTube channel and click on that button to receive alerts if you want to hear more. :) 
> 
> And because it encourages me to know that people are reading this story, I hope you'll drop a comment! :) 
> 
> ~  
> Warrior717


	9. Chapter 9

Belle woke to a raw, throbbing pain in her head, wrists and ankles. The musky smell of earth invaded her nostrils, and she could feel the tiny stems of leaves pressing against her back and cheek. Groaning slightly, she opened her eyes, immediately squeezing them shut against the harsh morning sunlight. She moved to rub a hand over her eyes, a jolt of fear rushing through her when she realized her arms were bound behind her. She jerked her arms several times, her panic mounting when she only managed to further chafe her wrists.

"Look, she's moving," a child's voice squeaked excitedly, "I told you she wasn't dead!"

Belle heard the sound of rustling leaves as several sets of feet approached; she braced herself for a possible attack. This time when she opened her eyes, she was met not with blinding sunlight, but the round, slightly dirty faces of several children eagerly looking down at her.

Her fear ebbed slightly and she moved to sit up, the action requiring twice as much effort as she realized her legs were bound as well. The young boys jumped back, eyeing her with curiosity as well as wariness.

Now seated upright, Belle let her eyes trail over the curious group. There were five of them; the one she suspected was the oldest seemed on the cusp of adolescence, while the smallest one seemed at most five years old. They were dressed in an odd, almost savage combination of cloth and animal hides. Around their waists they each wore a belt made of braided palm fronds. All of them, even the tiny one eyeing her from behind the legs of the tallest boy, brandished some sort of weapon: wooden clubs, slingshots, sticks tipped with sharpened rocks.

Despite their primitive appearance, the children did not seem terribly threatening. In fact, they gawked at her more out of fascination than fear.

"Are you a girl?" A short, pudgy boy wearing a hood made of grey fur asked, tilting his head to the side. Belle's eyebrows shot up in surprise, and she might have laughed at the question were it not for the genuine wonder in the lad's voice.

"A-a woman, yes," Belle answered. Suddenly, the group of boys seemed to awaken from their awed silence.

"Why are you in Neverland?" A tall, lanky boy with pockmarks on his face asked, stepping closer and taking in her strange clothing with raised eyebrows.

"I came here to help—"

"Did your nanny lose you?" A wide-eyed boy with black, spiky hair interrupted, nibbling on his fingernails.

"No, I came here with—"

"She's too old for a nanny, Nibs!" A boy with flaming red hair answered, shoving the black-haired boy—Nibs--on the shoulder.

"Maybe she's a fairy," piped in the smallest boy, his head peeking from around the tallest boy's legs.

"She's too big to be a fairy," said the red-haired boy, rolling his eyes. 

"But she's pretty," the tiny boy said shyly, his face blushing. Belle could not hold back a smile at the sweet boy.

"If she's a fairy, Tootles, then where are her wings?" Nibs asked, pointing a grubby finger at Belle's back. Tootles shrugged, looking down at his feet.

"I'm not a fairy. I'm from a different land. I came here to find someone," Belle explained quickly, before the boys could launch into another argument.

"If you're supposed to be finding someone, what are you doing tied up?" A boy with bright blonde hair and a tunic made of deer's hide asked, folding his arms in front of him.

Belle's brow furrowed in confusion. "I was about to ask you the same question."

"We didn't tie you up," Nibs said, frowning slightly. "We found you like this."

The apprehension which had ebbed during the boys' interrogation returned in a painful rush. If the children had not bound her arms and legs, who had? Belle screwed her eyes shut, trying to recall what had happened. They had been walking. She had been writing in an old ledger. She tripped. Had she fallen and hit her head? Her head certainly hurt as though she had. But then, how had she ended up like this: her arms and legs bound so tightly it was a miracle she had not lost feeling in them? And where was Ru— 

"Ow!" Belle yelped, her eyes shooting open and sending a reproving glare at the gangly, pockmarked boy who had just jabbed her shoulder with a stick.

"Sorry," he murmured, his face flushing, "You looked like you were having a fit or something..."

Taking a long, steadying breath, Belle put forth the sweetest smile she could muster under the circumstances.

"Well, if you boys did not tie me up, would you mind untying me? These ropes are rather uncomfortable." 

The boy who had poked her turned around to face the others. They each shrugged noncommittally, except Tootles, who nodded enthusiastically. The boy crouched down at Belle's feet, brandishing a rock that had been filed to a point.

"Not so fast," a voice drawled from the trees. The boys' heads snapped up in the direction of the voice, their mouths stretching into wide smiles. A few leaves tumbled down to the ground, and a moment later a boy jumped down from the branches, falling more slowly and landing more softly than natural.

He was taller than most of the boys, likely taller than Belle herself, and wore a tunic of maple and fig leaves sewn together with spider's silk. His sun-kissed skin and the soft highlights in his dark hair spoke of many hours spent in sunlight. A small sword, not much larger than a dagger, hung from a length of rope tied about his waist.

He approached her, his steps languid and confident. The other boys stepped out of his way, their gazes glued to him in admiration.

"How can we be sure she's not one of Hook's?" The boy asked, coming to a stop at her feet gazing down at her.

"Hook?" Belle looked up at the curious boy, completely baffled.

"She doesn't look like a pirate; she hasn't even got a weapon," the red-haired boy pointed out, stepping closer.

"Well then, why is she here?"

For a moment Belle felt as though she were back on her father's war council, where the men had distastefully taken to discussing her as though she were not there, until she had set them right with a rather scathing outburst that culminated in her tossing her crown out of the window.

"We only arrived here yesterday," Belle explained. "Or was it the day before..." she murmured to herself, disoriented by the loss of time.

"We?" The boy began to circle her, clasping his hands behind his back. There was something strikingly familiar about his mannerisms.

"I came here with someone, a man. His name is—" 

"Where is he?" The boy cut in, now standing directly beside her.

Belle bit back an exasperated sigh. These boys really needed to learn that it was impolite to interrupt.

"I don't know...We must have been separated." Anxiety coiled uncomfortably in Belle's stomach.

"Maybe he's in danger!" The black-haired boy—Nibs, Belle reminded herself—offered excitedly. Belle's heart clenched at the thought. 

"She's got blood on her head; maybe it was an ambush," suggested the tall, lanky boy, pointing at Belle's forehead. Belle's hands began to shake.

"It could be an adventure!" The red-haired boy cried, raising his slingshot in the air.

The boy standing at Belle's side—judging by the others' behavior, he was something akin to their leader—grinned, his eyes glinting at the mention of adventure. 

He brought a hand to his chin, his brow furrowed and lips pressed together in mock contemplation as the other boys continued pleading.

"All right," he spoke at last, and Belle almost did not hear his next words over the whoops and cheers of the others. "But if you turn on us, I'll feed you to the crocodile," he warned, though the dimpled smile on his face disbanded any legitimacy the threat held.

Belle released a sigh of relief as he bent down and sliced the blade of his sword through her bonds with practiced ease. She stretched her arms and rolled her shoulders, flinching slightly at the stiffness. Slowly rising to her feet, her legs aching as though they had scaled a mountain, she took in more of her surroundings. Several stones had been dislodged from the steep hillside: perhaps she had fallen after all. That still did not explain why she had woken alone and bound.  
If only she could remember...Belle sighed deeply, running a hand through her hair and wincing as she brushed over the lump on her forehead. Ah, that explained it.

"Well, now that I know you're not out to kill us, allow me to introduce myself: I am Peter Pan, the bravest and most cleverest boy in the land!" Belle's youthful liberator declared, placing his fists against his waist and sticking his chin in the air.

"And these," he gestured to the group of boys standing before them, "are the Lost Boys."

"I'm Slightly!" The blond-haired boy with the deer's hide tunic declared, bowing elaborately and grinning puckishly when Belle responded with a curtsy, laughing lightly.

"Pox," said the tall, lanky boy with the pockmarked face curtly, extending a hand toward Belle, and then pulling it away with a laugh as she reached to grasp it.

"Nibs!" The black-haired boy shouted, jumping with excitement, his teeth chewing on his thumbnail.

"Curly!" The red-haired boy declared, pointing a stubby finger at his head.

"My name's Tootles," mumbled the smallest of the boys, waving shyly at Belle and blushing crimson when she waved in return.

They were overwhelming, these rambunctious boys, but Belle could not help smiling fondly at them. If only she knew where Ru— 

"Well? Aren't you going to tell us your name?" Peter Pan prompted, quirking an eyebrow and smirking.

"What? Oh! Belle. I'm Belle," she smiled tentatively, feeling a little foolish.

"That's funny, you don't look or sound at all like a bell," Peter quipped, his eyes glinting mischievously at Belle's chuckle.

"Well, there's no sense waiting around here. We've a map of the island back at the tree house," he explained, "We can take a look and—where are you going?" 

Belle had started walking farther along the base of the hill, pausing momentarily to turn and face the boys. 

"I think we must have fallen down the hill. I'm looking for the man I mentioned, the one I came here with," she explained, turning around once more to continue her search.

"We've already had a look around. That's why we came here: this part of the island has the best fruit." As if to prove his point, the boy plucked what looked like a purple apple from a low-growing bush, taking a noisy bite out of its flesh.

"Well, what if he comes back?" Belle asked, frowning slightly.

"We've been here for hours," Slightly stated, "Not one sign."

"Besides, if it's a rescue we're planning, we'll need to prepare," Peter explained, relishing the idea of a new adventure. Belle chewed fretfully on her bottom lip, her eyes darting between the small group and their surroundings.

"If you're that worried, I can let the fairies know. They'll keep a lookout for him," he promised, and the mention of something familiar, something Belle knew she could trust, eased some of her anxiety. She nodded.

"All right, Lost Boys! To the Drey!" Peter shouted, spurring on another round of cheers from the boys.

Belle felt something small and warm slide into the palm of her hand, and looked down to find Tootles grinning toothily up at her. She smiled down at him, giving his hand an affectionate squeeze as they started up the slope of the hill. 

Belle shook her head slightly as some of the boys tried to trip each other by tapping the backs of their knees. 

Suddenly Peter stopped, stooping low to pick up something from the ground.

"What's that, Peter?" Tootles asked, standing on the tips of his toes to peer into Peter's hand. The other boys stopped their ascent, closing in for a better look.

"I don't know," Peter murmured, staring down at the thin silver chain in his palm.

"Is it yours?" Nibs asked, turning to look at Belle.

"I've never seen it before," Belle responded, shaking her head.

"I..I think I have..." Peter's voice trailed off, his eyes fixated on the chain but his gaze worlds away. He titled his hand sideways, watching as the metal glittered in the sunlight.

"Peter?" Tootles' tiny voice seemed to yank Peter out of his reverie; he closed his fist around the trinket, shaking his head slightly.

"It's nothing. Probably something the Indians made," he shrugged nonchalantly, continuing once more up the hillside.

The other boys followed his lead, talking animatedly and resuming their attempts to trip each other, so that only Belle noticed when Peter surreptitiously slid the silver chain into his pocket.


	10. Chapter 10

Although the walk to the tree house stretched for at least several miles, the Lost Boys' incessant questions and squabbling made time pass quickly.  They asked her where she was from, what her favorite color was, whether she'd ever eaten a bug.  Belle laughed at the last one, assuring them she had not, and then paled as Slightly plucked a beetle off a nearby tree and popped it into his mouth. 

"See? It's not so bad. Tastes like chicken," he told her, chewing loudly and smacking his lips. He laughed loudly at Belle's grimace, before turning about and challenging Nibs to a race. 

Belle smiled as she watched the two sprint forward.  When they were not asking questions or trying to get a rise out of Belle, the Lost Boys were always playing. They were remarkably creative and seemed to possess a never-ending store of energy, transforming hanging vines into swings and rotting logs into jumping contests, pretending shrubs were pirates and the soil a sea of lava.  Tootles eventually released his grip on Belle's hand, wandering off to play with Nibs, to whom he was closest in age.

Belle saw many remarkable things as they walked: butterflies whose wings stretched wider than a foot, stones which rolled of their own accord (much to the enjoyment of the Lost Boys, who tried to chase them), a pond with purple water.  But nothing was quite as remarkable as the adolescent boy who soared above their heads, shaking branches so that the willows' tiny leaves rained down on them in a thick, multi-colored haze.  He seemed so...free, untroubled by fear or sorrow.  As Belle watched him flying amongst the treetops, she could not help but envy him.

Fear twisted painfully in her stomach.  She still could not remember how she had ended up bound at the bottom of a hill she did not remember descending.  Unexplainable scratches and bruises peppered her arms and chest.  And, most frightening of all, she still had not seen a single sign of R—

"There it is!" Peter cried, hovering a few feet above the Lost Boys and Belle and pointing ahead toward a massive white oak tree.  The Lost Boys cheered loudly, darting forward.

"Last one there has to eat a toadstool!" Pox yelled, his long legs propelling him past the shorter boys.  The boys shouted indignantly, chasing after him and trying to elbow each other out of the way.  Peter remained behind, lowering himself from the air to stand beside Belle.  He smiled at her, before grabbing her hand and leading her closer to the tree.

As they approached, Belle felt her brow crease in confusion.  It was just a tree.  A massive one, truly, but Belle could not see a single plank of the boys' supposed home.  She turned her gaze to Peter, quirking an eyebrow.  Smirking slightly at Belle's bemused expression, Peter pointed up at the branches.

"Look closer," he advised, his grin widening.  Belle obeyed, stepping closer and squinting up at the tree's winding, vine-covered branches. 

As though Peter's outstretched arm and pointing finger lifted a fog from her eyes, Belle saw it.  Thin stairs composed of logs and braided vines coiled around the massive trunk, leading upward toward a domed hut nestled between the oak's two largest branches.  To Belle's surprise the spiraling vine staircase did not stop there.  It continued upward through the middle of the hut, leading to a smaller one built slightly to the left.  A catwalk balanced on a thick branch on the opposite side, vines twisting about its railing and fastening it in place.  At first Belle thought the catwalk led nowhere specific, but as she stared more closely she could make out what looked like four little platforms suspended above and beside it.  Piles of leaves and cloth rested on two of the platforms, and Belle realized they must be some of the boys' beds.  The third one was empty, except for a wreath of brightly colored flowers.

"That's where I sleep," Peter said, pointing not at the floating platforms, but at a much smaller hut toward the very top of the tree that Belle had not yet noticed.  It was round with a domed ceiling, and seemed to be covered in sewn leaves not unlike those which composed the boy's tunic.  As they neared the base of the tree, Belle could see a thin rope ladder leading up to it.  How could these children accomplish such advanced architecture, Belle silently asked herself, her mouth slightly agape as she took in the impressive structure.

"We've been here a while," Peter explained as though reading her thoughts. "We had a little help from the fairies, too," he added, grinning.

"Come on, Belle!" Tootles cried from halfway up the spiral stairs, waving happily at her before turning back around and bolting up the remaining steps.

"If you think the outside is neat, just wait till you see the inside," Peter said proudly, before crouching slightly and launching himself into the air.  Belle gasped lightly, wondering if she would ever grow accustomed to seeing a _person_ fly with more ease and grace than a bird on the wind.  Smiling softly to herself, she started up the vine staircase.

Surprisingly, it did not break or even quiver under her weight.  Upon closer inspection she realized the vines and logs had been reinforced with globs of hardened tree sap. When her head passed the floor of the first hut, Belle's jaw dropped.  Peter was right: the outside was the work of an amateur compared to the inside.

Thick vines covered in iridescent leaves wound about the domed ceiling and some parts of the smoothed walls; the sunlight reflected brilliantly off of their surfaces, lighting the entire room.  A wooden sign bearing the words "The Drey" hung in the middle of one of the walls.

"I am not eating a toadstool!" Curly yelled, tackling Pox to the hut's floor with a loud thud.  Raucous laughter and more thuds followed as the boys piled on each other; Peter hovered above them, pretending to place bets on who would win.  Once Belle was certain the tree house was not going to collapse from the ruckus, and the boys were not going to commit serious harm against each other, she resumed her exploration.

The vines low enough for the boys to reach were covered in intricate carvings: animals, stick figures, a ship with large sails.  She reached out a hand, trailing the tips of her finger over a carving of Neverland's moons.  There seemed to be a sequence to the pictures, and with a smile Belle realized the boys were chronicling their adventures.

"I made this one," a tiny voice said from beside her.  Tootles pointed up at two roughly engraved stick figures.  "That's me," he clarified, pointing at the shorter of the two.

"Who's that?" Belle asked, pointing at the slightly taller figure beside his.

"That's Scout," he murmured, looking down at his feet.  The other boys' laughter abruptly ended, and they slowly untangled themselves, their faces surprisingly solemn.  Peter slowly lowered to the floor.

"He's gone," Tootles said quietly, still staring at his feet.  A sense of foreboding filled Belle at his tone and the boys' behavior; she placed a gentle hand on the little boy's shoulder as she saw a tear splash on the ground.

"Hook killed him," Peter said flatly, walking over to them.  He pointed at another carving, one which clearly depicted a man with a hook in place of his left hand standing on the chest of his young victim.  The image was painted black.  A chill ran through Belle at the thought of these sweet boys facing such a cruel enemy.  She turned to face them, her own throat constricting at their tear-filled eyes.

The silence stretched on for a few moments as she assumed they were reliving the horrifying experience of losing one of their own.  Only Peter's eyes remained dry, though his demeanor was somber.

"Come on," Peter murmured, reaching again for Belle's hand, "I'll show you the rest of the Drey."

He led her back to the vine staircase as the other boys slowly withdrew themselves from their grief.  Pox sat down in the middle of the floor, gesturing for the others to follow.  They sat in a circle, starting a somewhat lackluster game of pass the parcel.

Peter and Belle reached the second, slightly smaller hut.  Clambering through the hatch in its floor, Belle's breath caught at all the objects strewn about the inside.

Brass candlesticks, fish netting, articles of moth-eaten clothing, and an assortment of other artifacts littered the floor and makeshift shelves that had been mounted on the walls. 

"This is where we keep our treasure," Peter explained, grinning as they stepped farther into the room.  "And where Tootles and Nibs like to sleep," he added, pointed at two bundles of blankets against the farthest wall.

Belle wandered over to one of the shelves.  It almost resembled a desk, holding a few sheets of parchment, an ink well, and, to Belle's surprise, a scarlet leather-bound book with gold along the edges of its pages.  She ran her fingertips along its smooth surface, picking it up.

"Nicked that from Hook's cabin on the _Jolly Roger_ ," Peter explained, peering over Belle's shoulder.  "Most of this stuff is his."

Belle frowned slightly at how nonchalantly the boy admitted to thievery.  "You stole his property?"

"He stole our friend," Peter countered, a note of finality to his tone that reminded Belle of someone.  But before she could think who, Peter spoke again. "Want to see the rest of the tree house?"

Belle nodded, placing the red book back on the shelf and following Peter back down the hatch.

He led her along the catwalk, which Belle was surprised to find was just as sturdy as the rest of the tree house, despite its precarious position on the edge of a branch.  Four platforms hung from vines coiled around a higher branch.  Above each of them was a small canopy of leaves and palm fronds.

"This is where Pox sleeps," Peter explained, pointing at a long, slim platform hanging slightly to the right of the catwalk.  "This is where Curly sleeps." He gestured to a wider platform hovering next to Pox's.  "And this is where Slightly sleeps," he said, walking to stand beside the platform hovering to the left of the catwalk.  Belle stretched her neck to peer around him at the platform all the way at the end of the catwalk. 

"Is that where you sleep?" She asked, returning her gaze to Peter.  He shook his head.

"No one sleeps there," he answered, clenching his jaw slightly and walking back toward the vine staircase.

Belle stepped closer to the platform, brow furrowed.  With a wave of sadness and sympathy for the boys, she realized why no one slept on that platform.  A wreath of flowers lay on it, as well as a tiny wooden sign with the word "Scout" carved into its sanded surface.  Her heart ached for the truly lost boy, as well as the friends he had left behind.

Casting one more look at the untouched platform, Belle turned around, walking over to where Peter stood.

"I'll show you my place next. It's got the best view," he said, smiling softly.

"Lead the way," Belle responded, returning his smile with one of her own. 

Unlike the rest of the tree house, the rope ladder leading to Peter's room was not stable, and there were several moments when Belle felt certain her heart had stopped as the ladder swung slightly under their weight.  When they finally reached the hut at the top of the tree, Belle could not stifle a heavy sigh of relief.

"You're afraid of heights?" Peter asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Not all of us can fly if we lose our footing," Belle responded, smiling lightly as the boy laughed.  She looked around, taking in the hut's interior.

The walls were completely covered with leaves and vines, so that it seemed as if the room had grown with the tree itself.  A pile of leaves covered with a blanket sewn from several articles of clothing sat in the middle of the floor.  On the eastern wall was a small window; Peter was right, he did have the best view.  She could see the sparkling blue waters of an ocean in the distance.

A light buzzing sound echoed behind her, and Belle turned sharply on her heel, expecting a large insect.  She gasped in surprise when she realized it was a pair of fairies hovering above Peter's shoulders.  Like Peter, they wore tunics composed of Neverland's vegetation.

"Belle, this is Buidhe," he nodded his head in the direction of the orange fairy, "And Flannach," he point a thumb at the purple fairy hovering over his right shoulder.  "I've known them for as long as I can remember," he said, grinning at the tiny winged beings.  Belle gave them each a nod, smiling lightly.

"There's someone we need you to find.  Belle came here with a man, but they were separated. Can you help us?" Peter asked, holding out a hand for them to sit down.

"What is his name?" Buidhe asked, turning to face Belle.

"His name is...it's..." Belle's voice trailed off, a jolt of anxiety filling her as she frantically tried to locate the name in her mind. "I think it...it begins with an 'R'..." She felt a lump swell in her throat as her attempts to remember his name failed.  The fairies looked at one another, concern filling their gazes.  Peter furrowed his eyebrows, seeming more confused than amused that Belle could not remember the name of the man with whom she traveled here.

"I don't know why I—I can't remember.... He's a good man, I promise. I love him.  I don't know how we were separated, but I...I think he might be in danger.  Please, can you find him?"  Belle pleaded, her eyes darting between the two fairies.  They nodded.

"Of course. We'll tell the others, send out a group to search the island. We'll come back if we learn anything," they promised, rising to their feet and flying toward the window. 

"Wait," Peter called, walking over to the window.  The fairies paused, hovering over the wooden ledge.  "Be sure to check the _Jolly Roger_ , too, just in case," he added quietly, casting a quick look at Belle and the dark purple bruise painting the side of her forehead.

The fairies nodded, Flannach looking a little apprehensive at the idea of approaching Hook's ship.  They bowed quickly, Buidhe sending a soft, reassuring smile toward Belle, before darting out of Peter's window and into the afternoon sun.

Belle watched them until their little lights faded in the distance.  She worried her bottom lip between her teeth, fear coiling in her chest at the thought that they might not find him at all.

"Don't worry," Peter said, coming to stand beside her. "The fairies will find him.  And if he's in danger, well, you're staying with the best warriors in all of Neverland," he smiled widely, before plopping down to sit on his makeshift mattress.

Belle smiled softly at his confidence, hoping with every fiber of her being that he was right.  She walked over to sit down in front of him, her legs immensely grateful for the rest.  She watched as Peter pulled the silver chain he had found earlier from his pocket, fiddling with the broken ends.  He stared at it as he had in the forest, with that same marveled mixture of confusion and familiarity.

"If you'd like, I could try to fix it for you," Belle offered quietly.  It was the least she could do in return for his hospitality, and he seemed to have a fondness for the little trinket.  His head snapped up at her voice, as though he had forgotten she was there.  He nodded slowly.

"I'd like that," he murmured, returning his gaze once more to the thin chain glittering in his palm.

 


	11. Chapter 11

Rumplestitlskin watched the tiny dust motes tumble about in the waning sunlight that leaked through the porthole of the _Jolly Roger_ 's brig.The cell was roughly two meters long and two meters wide, with a thin burlap hammock suspended from the ceiling by iron chains.Black and green mildew painted the corners, its sickly sweet stench amplified by the heat.A quiet scratching sound within one of the walls suggested a rat infestation.

Hours of sitting in the musky, sweltering cell beneath the captain's quarters eventually dulled Rumplestiltskin's unadulterated fury at being locked once more in a cage, or at least banished it to a separate part of his mind.He passed a hand through his hair, his other hand absentmindedly fiddling with a knot in the wooden bulkhead.Now, as he laid back against the damp floor of his prison, he found his thoughts wandering to Belle.

Was she still alone and bound in the middle of the forest?Had she even regained consciousness?Fear and despair roiled in his chest at the thought of what could have been avoided had he not been so selfish. His mind continued replaying the look of utter betrayal that had crossed Belle's features when he refused to use the magic, and he frequently found himself tempted to use it now, to send a rush of it toward the devil seated a floor above him.

But what good would it do? Was the little amount of magic he possessed even strong enough to pass through the ship's wood? Even if it was, he was still compelled to remain inside this cell until Hook commanded otherwise.He could not even convince his body to approach the door, much less tinker with its lock.

He wished he could return to Belle, untie her and apologize profusely for his foolishness, listen to her lilting voice (even if it was yelling at him), run his fingers through her soft, blonde hair...

Or was it brown? Rumplestitlskin closed his eyes, imagining his Belle standing before him.He saw her smooth, alabaster skin, her smiling pink lips, her striking turquoise eyes...but he could not place the color of her hair.Before he could dwell on it further, frustration now joining the mosaic of emotions twisting inside of him, the barred door to his cell swung open with a loud clang.

Hook stood in the doorway, the crooked dagger clutched in his right hand and a small smirk stretching his lips.

"Walk with me," he said quietly, and although his voice sounded calm, monotonous even, the sharp yank of the magical chains wound about Rumplestiltskin's soul implied otherwise.Hook turned about on his heel, walking toward the ladder leading to the ship's deck.Rumplestiltskin's body followed obediently, while his mind launched a thousand silent curses and insults at the man's elaborately dressed back.

The sudden onslaught of cool air, combined with the fact that he had not drunk anything for nearly two days, made Rumplestiltskin's head swim as they stepped onto the deck.He braced an arm against the foremast, blinking hard a few times until the world steadied itself.Hook stared at him, something which looked like concern but Rumplestiltskin knew was annoyance flashing in his eyes.The captain continued walking toward the side of the ship, pausing to grab a tin cup from a passing pirate and plunge it into a trough of fresh water.He brusquely pushed the cup into Rumplestiltskin's hand, before turning around and leaning back slightly against the starboard gunwale.

"You're no use to me dead," Hook drawled as his eyes took in his prisoner's sweat-drenched forehead and chapped lips.

Rumplestiltskin said nothing, lifting the cup to his lips and taking several quick gulps.The liquid almost burned as it slowly slid down his parched throat.He lifted the cup again to throw back the rest, but froze before it could touch his lips.His stomach twisted as he realized it was not water he drank.

It was blood.

A sound somewhere between a gasp and a gag slipped past his lips, and with a jerk of his hand he let the cup fall to the deck.It clattered loudly against the wooden surface, rolling a few feet away.The liquid spilled out of the cup, but it no longer shone crimson.

Rumplestiltskin stared at the transparent puddle for a moment, before turning around and leaning against the gunwale, wondering if he was going to be sick.He closed his eyes, swallowing hard against the bile rising in his throat, forcing back another wave of nausea.He thought he heard Hook say something, but he could not make out the words over his pulse pounding in his ears.

When he opened his eyes, his gaze caught slight movement in the gentle waves lapping against the _Jolly_ _Roger_ 's hull.A series of dull thuds echoed around them, as though the ship were sailing through debris.He leaned farther over the ledge, squinting slightly.A large bundle of black fabric appeared to be floating alongside the ship.He stared at it, vaguely aware of Hook leaning over the gunwale to look as well.

A rougher wave slapped against the bundle, forcing it to turn over.It was not debris through which the ship sailed; it was corpses. They bobbed lightly in the dark water, knocking against the ship's oak hull.A pale, bloated face with large, rotting eyes stared up at him.It's neck was twisted at an unnatural angle, it's clothing tattered and water-logged.Rumplestiltskin stared in paralyzed horror as more lifeless bodies emerged from the ocean's depths, their eyes open but unseeing, their black uniforms hanging on their skeletal, decomposing forms.

On each of their chests was a deep, gaping wound Rumplestiltskin knew his dagger had caused.

Rumplestitlskin whirled around, shutting his eyes. Bile once again burned the back of his throat at the memory of their peeling, sallow flesh.The lows thuds of the corpses knocking against the hull echoed the throbbing pain in his head.

"You see it, too," Hook's voice said from beside him.Rumplestiltskin's eyelids shot open; eyebrows furrowing, he looked at his compeller. 

Hook still stared into the water, his eyes bearing a haunted look.Half of the sun was submerged beneath the horizon, casting a deep, scarlet haze over the ocean and its lone vessel.

"The crocodile," he explained, his gaze wandering along the water's surface, "My men don't see it." 

Confusion creasing his brow further, Rumplestiltskin slowly turned round to glance over the edge of the gunwale.The ominous thudding was gone, the only sound now the gentle slap of the waves against the _Jolly Roger_ 's oak hull.The corpses were gone.His eyes scanned the water, searching but not finding any sign of a crocodile.

"It lurks. Waiting. Always waiting," Hook murmured, a slight shudder rocking his shoulders.

"Ever since that little demon cut off my hand," he jerked his left arm in front of him, glaring at the silver hook which glowed like flames in the dying sunlight, "and threw it to the beast.Now it wants the rest of me."

Rumplestiltskin remained silent, feeling a slight twinge of appreciation toward the person responsible for Hook's disability.

"Peter Pan," Hook snarled, digging the tip of his hook into the wooden edge of the gunwale."A thieving, careless boy who approaches life as though it were nothing more than a game, who is practically worshipped by the island itself."Hook scoffed at that last thought, before adding, "Even the weather answers to him. It rained for weeks after I killed one of his little followers."

Disgust swelled in Rumplestiltskin's chest at the man's matter-of-fact tone.No amount of penance could pardon the murder of a child.

"If the boy offends you so, why not kill him as you did his friend?" Rumplestiltskin asked harshly, eyes hardening in anger as his master's lips stretched into a small smirk.

Hook chuckled mirthlessly, turning to face Rumplestiltskin."Every attempt I have made on his life has been in vain.My crew and I have searched for Pan and his league of brats endlessly; it was what we were doing when we so fortunately crossed your path. It was only by chance that I managed to catch one of them."

Rumplestiltskin smirked condescendingly at the man's words, biting back a low chuckle.Hook glared at him, quirking a brow.

"Bested by a _child_? How tragic," Rumplestitlskin elaborated, his smirk widening as Hook's gaze grew black with fury.

"Pan is not just a child. He's a menace. And the odds are not exactly in my favor: the boy can fly," Hook growled, his defensive tone only fueling Rumplestiltskin's dark mirth. Something in Hook's demeanor seemed to change then, his rigid posture slackened slightly, the fury in his eyes replaced by a drawn, haunted look. "He can forget," he murmured, staring once more into the ocean's depths.

Rumplestiltskin stared at his captor, watching as the man's right hand fidgeted slightly with his silver hook.For the first time he saw not a ruthless, bitter villain, but a young, tormented man.Standing so near to him, Rumplestiltskin could see that the lines in his forehead and around his eyes were more a consequence of years of a hard life at sea than age.

"Why are you telling me this?" Rumplestiltskin snapped, unnerved by this sudden change in Hook.The captain gazed into the water, languidly dragging his hook along the edge of the gunwale, leaving a shallow groove in the surface.

"That crocodile has gone hungry for a very long time.I imagine he would be satisfied with any meal, whether a crooked captain or a carefree child."

Hook looked up at him, his black eyes now glinting with a sinister hunger.His lips slowly stretched into a dark smirk.

"I have decided what task your magic is going to fulfill for me."

Rumplestiltskin stared back at him, trepidation now warring with the anger in his chest.

"You are going to kill Pan."

It was not a command; the distinct absence of the telltale chains yanking at his body told Rumplestiltskin that.But it was a plan, and a daunting one at that.Rumplestiltskin and Hook eyed each other for a moment, the latter silently daring the former to protest.

But Rumplestiltskin said nothing, merely staring at his compeller, a new surge of revulsion flooding his veins like viscous tar.

"Return to the brig," Hook commanded abruptly, and Rumplestiltskin tightened his jaw as his legs obediently turned him around, walking toward the ladder leading down to his prison.

When he entered his cell, slamming the barred door behind him and wincing slightly as the heavy lock clicked into place, the icy compulsion loosened, disappearing almost completely.

Rumplestiltskin's lips stretched into a primal grin. Hook had commanded him to return to the brig. 

He had not commanded him to _stay_ there.

 


	12. Chapter 12

Belle stood at the base of the boys' massive white oak tree, using the water in a small basin to wash some of the dirt and dried blood from her scratched arms and face.  She could hear the boys shouting and playing on the other side of the tree; it sounded as though they were pretending to be various types of animals.  She could make out Tootles' tiny voice trying to roar like a lion.

Smiling lightly, she splashed some of the cool water on her face.  A pained hiss escaped between her clenched teeth as the water washed some of her sweat into the cut on her forehead.

Her wrists were still red and raw from the coarse ropes that had bound them.  Shallow scrapes and several dark purple bruises decorated her arms and legs.  Overall, however, she was physically well, her injuries minor and likely to heal in a matter of days.  Belle gazed down at her reflection in the basin, frowning slightly.  She only hoped her love had been as fortunate as she.

It was strange, she thought, as she finished scrubbing her hands and arms.  She could envision him perfectly in her mind: his sandy brown hair that just brushed the base of his neck, the lines and dimples that creased his face when he smiled in a way that she had a feeling he only reserved for her.  Yet, try as she might, she could not place her finger on his name.  And she _did_ try, often.  It was as though his name were concealed behind a wooden fence; her thoughts stretched as tall as they could, standing on the tips of their toes, but every time they neared the top of the fence, it grew another foot in height.  It made something deep in her chest ache.

"Belle?"

She turned around, finding Peter standing there with half a dozen rolls of parchment in his arms. 

"I was thinking we could look over some maps, see if we can figure out where your friend might be, if you'd like," he explained, unrolling one of the rolls to reveal a detailed sketch of part of the island.  Relief filled Belle at the prospect of doing something, anything, that might bring her closer to finding _him_.

She followed Peter up the vine staircase, breathing a sigh of relief when he did not walk over to the precarious ladder leading to his room at the top of the tree.  They sat on the wooden catwalk where the other boys' platform beds hung, spreading the scrolls of parchment before them.

Belle and Peter spent the next few hours poring over the Lost Boys' hand-drawn maps of Neverland, many of which depicted an aerial view of the island, as provided by their flying leader.  Tiny colored sketches of landmarks and scenery peppered the yellow parchment. Belle described the meadow where they had slept their first night, and Peter pointed to a crude sketch of cattails and flowers just south of the center of the island.

"So, that's where your journey started the day you were separated," Peter said aloud while Belle nodded.

"We were looking for the shoreline, so we could get our bearings," Belle explained, leaning closer to squint at the drawing beneath the boy's finger.

"The shortest route to the ocean would have been this way," he ran his finger south between a patch of thick willows, coming to a stop at a plateau on the coastline.  "But we found you here," he added, frowning slightly in confusion and pointing to a cluster of hills toward the western side of the island.

Belle sighed exasperatedly, running a hand through her hair.  If only she could remember... She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply... The sudden image of someplace dark and damp flashed in her thoughts. She remembered leaning against a cold stone wall, panting, and the air heavy with the scent of mildew.

Her eyes sprang open, finding Peter watching her curiously, his head titled to the side.  Belle excitedly pulled one of the more detailed maps toward herself, her gaze frantically scanning the pictures.

"We were somewhere dark, damp. I think it might have been underground..." Belle explained, chewing on her bottom lip as she followed her gaze with her index finger.

"It might have been one of the caves!" Peter exclaimed, leaning over the map and pointing to a rough sketch of cliffs, each with a dark crevasse in its side. "That's not far from where we found you. There's a stream that flows underneath them and leads to the ocean.  Maybe that's where you lost him?"

Belle stared at the picture to which he pointed, her brow furrowing slightly.  She had felt frightened, terrified inside that dark place.  Had it been because she was alone, because they had been separated?

"I think you're right," she murmured, nodding slowly.  The boy's face lit up in triumph.

"We'll go there at daybreak tomorrow! We can check along the coastline, too. Maybe he decided to stick with the plan and find water?" Peter smiled at her, his eyes glinting at the prospect of having a starting point in their adventure.

Belle smiled tentatively back at him and nodded, doubt twisting madly in her stomach.  She had a feeling their separation was due to something far more sinister than a loss of direction, but she agreed to boy's plan.  Until she recalled more of their parting, retracing what she remembered of their steps seemed as logical a place to start as any.  Her love was somewhere on this island, and she was going to find him.

"It's settled, then," Peter declared, standing up proudly and piling the maps into his arms, "We'll leave at dawn for the waterside."  He shot her another beaming smiling before somersaulting over the ledge of the catwalk—which made Belle's stomach drop painfully before she remembered his talent for flight—and flying down to replace the maps in the cabin where the boys stored the odds and ends they had collected (and stolen) over the years.

Belle slowly wandered along the length of the walkway, pausing at the top of the vine stairs.  She leaned on the smooth railing, resting her chin in her hand.

The sun had just disappeared beneath the western horizon. Various shades of pinks and purples melded together in the darkening sky, contrasting with and yet complementing the rich greens and blues of Neverland's forest and ocean.  A few stars twinkled excitedly above, anxious for the night to begin.

It was beautiful, breathtaking.  She wondered if _he_ could see it, too.

"It's my turn tonight, Pox!" One of the boys shouted from below, the sound followed by a loud thump.

"No, it's not! It's Curly's turn!" Shouted another boy; Belle thought it might be Nibs. Another thump followed, and then it was chaos.  Yells and cries and thuds punctuated the evening air, and before Belle knew it she had raced down the vine staircase, nearly tripping as she sharply turned into the main cabin, and was pulling a red-faced Curly off of a scowling Pox by his ear.

"Boys, that is enough!" She scolded, stepping between the two glaring children and crossing her arms.  "Now, will someone please tell me what all this fuss is about?"

The rest of the boys sheepishly averted their eyes, fiddling with their hands and scuffing their feet against the wooden floor.

"Every night one of us tells a story. It helps us sleep," Pox eventually grumbled, "And tonight it's _my_ turn."

"It is not! You told one two nights—" Curly began to yell back, before quieting under the stern look Belle gave him.  He stared at his feet, his bottom lip sticking out in a dramatic pout that almost made Belle laugh.

"Well, why don't we see if we can all agree on a book and—"

"We haven't any," Slightly interjected, "Except that one we nicked from Hook, and it's not a storybook."

"Besides, Nibs and Tootles can't read," Pox added, jerking a thumb in the younger boys' direction.

"We can, too!" Nibs and Tootles yelled at the same time, jumping to their feet. "Peter's teaching us," Tootles declared, pointing at a space on the opposite wall where someone had carved the alphabet.

"Why don't you tell us a story, Belle?" Peter asked from his perch on the windowsill, grinning puckishly.  The boys all trained their gazes on her, their faces eager. Even Curly and Pox seemed to have forgotten their feud, their mouths stretched into wide grins at the idea of a new storyteller.

"Maybe you can sing us a lullaby?" Tootles asked quietly, his large green eyes peering up at her from his cherubic face.

"Lullabies are for babies," Pox said snidely, rolling his eyes at Tootles' request.  Tootles stared down at his feet, shrugging. 

"A lullaby it is," Belle declared, playfully ruffling the tiny boy's curls and pretending she did not hear Pox's huff of distaste.  The rest of the boys cheered and Peter nodded appreciatively.  They clambered to sit before her, Curly and Slightly lying back with their hands behind their heads. Peter remained in the windowsill, but turned so that he fully faced her.

Belle cleared her throat, suddenly a little nervous at the six pairs of eyes trained intently on her.  She closed her eyes, remembering her own mother's soft voice as she sang her to sleep on a stormy winter's night.  In her mind she sang with her mother, the words floating out of her mouth as naturally as a cloud on the wind.

 _Lay down your head,_  
_And I'll sing you a lullaby_  
_Back to the years_  
_Of loo-li, lai-ley..._

 _And I'll sing you to sleep,_  
_And I'll sing you tomorrow,_  
_Bless you with love_  
_For the road that you go._

She opened her eyes, smiling down at the boys as she sang the next words.  They gazed up at her, transfixed, and even Pox could not seem to look away.

 _May you sail fair_  
_To the far fields of fortune,_  
_With diamonds and pearls_  
_At your head and your feet._  
_And may you need never_  
_To banish misfortune_  
_May you find kindness_  
_In all that you meet._

Belle knelt down before them, letting the next words soar out of her throat in a soft prayer.  Her own gaze met each of theirs in turn; Pox shuffled forward to sit closer.

 _May there always be angels_  
_To watch over you,_  
_To guide you each step of the way,_  
_To guard you and keep you_  
_Safe from all harm._  
_Loo-li, loo-li, lai-ley..._

She slowly rose to her feet, still singing as she approached the window.  She smiled at Peter, who was watching her intently, before turning her gaze out of the window.  Her thoughts turned to her love, and as a soft breeze tumbled past her curls, she wished he could hear her.

 _May you bring love,_  
_And may you bring happiness,_  
_Be loved in return_  
_To the end of your days._  
_Now fall off to sleep;_  
_I'm not meaning to keep you._  
_I'll just sit for awhile,_  
_And sing_  
_Loo-li lai-ley..._

Belle's eyelids slid closed.  Neverland seemed to sing the next words with her, the sweet voices of its flowers and willows caressing the wind with their whispering notes.

 _May there always be angels_  
_To watch over you,_  
_To guide you each step of the way,_  
_To guard you and keep you_  
_Safe from all harm._  
_Loo-li, loo-li, lai-ley...._  
_Loo-li, loo-li, lai-ley...._

Entranced with the woman's lullaby, Neverland carried the sweet notes to the farthest reaches of the land.  Belle's lilting voice tumbled alongside the night's gentle breeze, soaring over the hills and amongst the towering treetops.  The leaves rustled gently, passing the melody between them until it reached the small camp of the Neverland natives, drawing them from their conic dwellings to stare up at the starry sky, wondering if the ethereal voice came from the heavens.

The lullaby floated to every corner of the island, and when it reached the shoreline, the rocking waves warmly embraced it, carrying it out to sea toward the lone ship that was anchored there.

The voice glided along the length of the _Jolly Roger_ , echoing gently amongst the massive sails.  Entranced, the pirates abandoned their miscellaneous duties aboard the deck, slowly walking over to the side of the ship facing the island.  They stood silently, some of them closing their eyes as the sweet notes washed over them. 

Hook's right hand, which was armed with a quill and poised over a yellowing map of Neverland, froze midair.  He listened intently, lending the lovely, lilting lullaby his full attention. At first, he wondered if the serene voice belonged to a mermaid, before remembering that they were extinct by his own hook.  A dark smirk stretched his lips as he realized just who the voice's owner must be. 

Rising quickly from his high-backed chair, Hook pushed through the door of his cabin and strode toward the ladder leading down to the brig.  He climbed down, his smirk widening as his eyes took in the man sitting in the dank cell, his eyes closed and head leaning back against the iron bars.

"Do you hear it?" Hook asked, a dark satisfaction filling him when his prisoner's eyes snapped open and his body tensed, startled.

Only a moment passed before Rumplestiltskin regained his stoic composure, staring blankly at his compeller.  "Hear what?" He asked flatly.

"Listen," Hook commanded, and once more the ice-cold chains of magic constricted painfully inside Rumplestiltskin as he was forced to obey.  "What do you hear?"

_Be loved in return to the end of your days..._

Belle's beautiful, breathy voice echoed around them, and Rumplestiltskin's longing to be near her peaked painfully.  He clenched his teeth, refusing to answer.

"Speak," Hook snapped.  Rumplestiltskin's mouth obediently wrenched itself open as the command mercilessly pulled the words from his throat.

"I hear a woman singing," he answered vaguely, fixing his gaze on a spot on the floor.

Hook leaned closer to Rumplestiltskin's cell, resting his hand and hook against the black iron bars. The grin spreading across his face mirrored the blackness of his heart.

"I must admit, her voice is exquisite," he said covetously, enjoying the way his prisoner's face flushed angrily. 

"I wonder," Hook drawled, tilting his head to the side, "To whom do you imagine she is singing, dearie?" He asked, his black eyes glinting maliciously in the moonlight. Rumplestiltskin's head snapped up, his brow furrowed.

"What did you call me?" He whispered, staring at his tormentor.  The captain appeared not to have heard him, lightly scraping the point of his hook against one of the iron bars.

"A voice as unique as hers should not be difficult to trace. And once I find its owner, I find Pan and his brats. It might take a little...persuasion," he inspected his hook in the moonlight, smirking darkly, "but I imagine she'll have all the answers I need."

Shooting one last primal grin in Rumplestiltskin's direction, Hook turned around and walked toward the ladder.  Unadulterated fear overwhelmed Rumplestiltskin.  Launching himself toward the bars, he bellowed, "Wait!"

Hook whirled around, his eyebrows raised in surprise at Rumplestiltskin's outburst.  The notes of Belle's lullaby floated between them, filling the brig with a sweetness that did not belong there.

"This woman, she is not simply a companion of yours," Hook stated, his gaze fixed intensely on his prisoner.  Rumplestiltskin did not respond.

"Tell me," the captain commanded, reveling in the way his prisoner's shoulders flinched, "Do you love her?"

"Yes," Rumplestiltskin whispered, and all energy seemed to flee him at the admission.  He slumped back against the side of his prison, shutting his eyes against the sneer twisting his captor's features. A dark chuckle met his ears.

"Fascinating," Hook said, shaking his head, "Truly fascinating."  He turned around, his boots thudding quietly against the hull as he approached the ladder and climbed back up to the deck.

Rumplestiltskin slammed his fist against the bulkhead, grinding his jaw against the enraged yell threatening to escape.  He ran a hand through his hair, fisting it at the base of his neck.  Shutting his eyes, he breathed deeply, letting the soothing notes of Belle's lullaby drown some of the anger roiling in his chest.

He could wait no longer.  As soon as the opportunity presented itself, he would escape.  He would not let his captor's silver hook come within even an inch of Belle's flesh. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lullaby featured in this chapter is called, "Sleepsong" by Secret Garden. You can listen to the song [HERE.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ulnAKZBy0hU)
> 
> :) 
> 
> ~ Warrior717


	13. Chapter 13

Neverland's two moons were just rising over the horizon when the last notes of Belle's lullaby drifted off into the night.She turned around to face the boys, her throat constricted with emotion.They sat in silence, letting the memory of her words wash over them. She saw Pox surreptitiously rub his nose against his sleeve.

After a few more moments of silence, Nibs yawned widely, rubbing his eyes with his fists.

"It's getting late," Belle said softly, smiling as the other boys began to yawn as well. "I think it's time for bed."

"I'm not sleepy," Tootles murmured, covering his mouth with a hand as another yawn threatened to escape.

"You need your rest, darling," Belle responded, kneeling before him. "All of you do," she added, looking at each of the drowsy boys in turn.Only Peter seemed wide awake, but he did not protest.

"If you like, I can tell you a story tomorrow night," she offered.The boys immediately brightened at the idea, nodding eagerly before rising to their feet, stretching.

Slowly, the boys drifted out of the room, wishing Belle a good night as they sleepily climbed the stairs to their respective beds. Tootles and Nibs hugged Belle around her legs, before clumsily chasing each other out of the room.Peter smiled from his perch in the window.

"That was beautiful," he said quietly, blushing slightly. 

"Thank you. My mother used to sing it to me," Belle smiled.Peter stared at her for a moment, a hint of sadness flashing in his gaze.

"I don't remember my parents," he spoke quietly, more to himself than to Belle. "Maybe I never had any."

Belle's eyes widened in shock at the boy's words. "You cannot remember your parents? Not at all?"

"I've been here a while," Peter shrugged nonchalantly, "And there aren't any parents in Neverland. We wouldn't be 'lost' if there were, would we?" He asked cheekily, grinning slightly.

"Slightly remembers his, a little. He hasn't been here that long," Peter mentioned, nodding in the direction of a small carving of a boy standing with two taller stick figures on the adjacent wall.

Belle stared at him, speechless at the tragedy of the boys' situation, her sadness amplified by the boy's matter-of-fact tone.She had assumed, given the boys' disheveled and rather wild appearance, that they had not enjoyed any conventional parenting in some time. But to think that these children had been living here the _entire_ time without an adult to look after them...

"If I did have a mother, though," Peter continued, "I think I'd want her to be like you," he said causally; his eyes suddenly widened and his face flushed scarlet."I — I mean..."

Belle smiled softly, both shocked and touched by his words.She felt a twinge of sorrow for the boy at the knowledge that during her short presence here, he'd likely received more "motherly" attention than he could ever remember receiving, and she had only sung him a lullaby...

"I understand," she said quietly, watching as he nodded once, still blushing.

He mumbled a quick "goodnight," before climbing out of the window and flying up to his room.Belle leaned out of the window, watching as he disappeared amongst the tree's topmost branches. She doubted she would ever grow accustomed to seeing a child fly with more ease and grace than a sparrow on the wind.

The cabin now empty, Belle pulled out the silver bracelet Peter had found earlier from her pocket.It had a most interesting design; the bracelet was not composed of tiny links fastened together, as was traditional.Rather, it seemed to be made of three solid threads of silver, delicately braided together.The ends had been carefully shaped into a loop and a ball that would have snapped together snuggly, had the loop not been broken open. 

If she could just lightly hammer the twisted end of the loop back in place, the bracelet's clasp should once more serve its purpose.Belle's eyes traced the expanse of the cabin, searching for something that would prove a strong enough tool for the task.Her eyes alighted on one of the boys' sharpened rocks; its tip had been filed to a fine point.

Belle laid the thin bracelet on the surface of the small wooden table standing in the corner of the cabin.Holding the chain in place with one hand, she placed the tip of the rock against the broken loop with the other.Carefully, she tapped the stone against the shining metal, each motion sending a soft _tink_ into the air. 

Slowly, the twisted end of the loop folded into its proper place.When the ends were once more aligned, Belle placed the point of the rock over a candle, holding it there until it glowed red hot.Ensuring that her fingers were not in the way, Belle pressed the heated stone to the bracelet's loop, tapping it until the metal was completely fused together.She laid the sharpened rock to the side, letting the metal cool.

Several minutes later, with a triumphant smile, Belle was able to successfully snap the silver ball on the opposite end of the bracelet into it.She held the silver chain before her, once more marveling at the unique craftsmanship, before rising to her feet and stretching out the knots that had formed between her shoulder blades from slouching for so long.

Sighing softly, Belle languidly walked outside to stand on the staircase.Neverland's moons now shone high in the starry sky, their bright, alabaster light illuminating the land like two small suns.She closed her eyes, letting the myriad sounds of the night wash over her.A soft breeze wafted through the reeds growing along the base of the tree, filling the air with their rich, baritone humming.As the flowers lowered their colorful heads in preparation for sleep, they released long, soft moans, not unlike those of a violin.A choir of crickets launched their sweet soprano voices toward the heavens.The tiny leaves of the willows whispered against each other, hushing the rest of the land to listen as a new melody suddenly entered the nighttime concert.

The breathy, lilting notes of a pan pipe floated down from the highest room in the Drey.They tumbled along on the breeze, rising and falling in a beautiful dance that took Belle's breath away.

"It's pretty, isn't it?" A voice asked from a few steps above on the stairs.Belle looked up, finding Pox leaning against the railing, smiling down at her.

"Very..." Belle breathed, before adding, "And sad, somehow."

Pox nodded, looking down at his hands. "Peter plays this one a lot. Ever since Scout..." his voice trailed off, and Belle‘s chest squeezed painfully as she saw there were tears slowly filling his eyes. 

"We all cried for weeks. Except Peter," the boy said quietly, looking up from his hands.Belle's brow creased in mild confusion at his words.

"He didn't need to.Neverland cried for him," he explained, turning his gaze to the sky.Belle mirrored him, her eyes taking in the ribbons of stars stretched overhead.

"Thank you," he said suddenly, looking back down at her. "For the lullaby. I was wrong, they're not for babies." 

"You're welcome," Belle said quietly, smiling up at him.He nodded, covering his mouth as he yawned.

"Goodnight, Belle," he murmured, walking along the catwalk toward his platform.

"Goodnight, Pox," Belle responded, turning her gaze once more to Neverland's scenery.The sweet notes of the pan pipe still filled the night air, and remembering Pox's words, Belle found herself gravitating toward the rickety ladder which hung along the trunk of the tree.

She felt no fear as she ascended the rungs, the melody acting like a comforting hand against her back.When she climbed through the hatch in the bottom of the small cabin's floor, her eyes landed on the source of the enchanting music.

Peter was sitting cross-legged on the middle of his floor, his eyes closed as he expertly breathed into his flute, infusing it with a life of its own.The song lasted a few more moments, before tapering off on the soaring notes of a coda.

"You play beautifully," Belle said quietly.Peter's eyes shot open and his face flushed at being caught unawares, but he smiled at her words, shrugging modestly.

"I have something for you," Belle continued, smiling as she held out the silver bracelet to him.Peter's eyes widened in surprise, and he stared silently up at her with gratitude.

"May I?" Belle asked, kneeling before the boy and gesturing to his wrist.He wordlessly held out his arm toward her, smiling lightly.She clasped the bracelet's ends together, once more feeling a slight rush of triumph at her work.

"Thank you," Peter whispered, running the fingers of his other hand over the braided silver.He silently stared at the piece of jewelry a moment longer, before looking up at her with a playful smirk.

"So that's what you've been tinkering with the past hour?" 

"I hope I did not keep you awake," Belle responded, laughing lightly.

"You didn't," Peter said, shaking his head, "I like to stay up a little later. Neverland is most beautiful at night."He rose to his feet, walking over to gaze out of the small window on the western wall.Belle followed him, taking in the moonlit scenery.

The boy's demeanor changed suddenly, his shoulders tensing slightly.He leaned out of the window, his eyes scanning the view.

"What is it?" Belle asked, worry beginning to gnaw at her stomach 

"I can see the crocodile from here," Peter murmured, leaning farther out and narrowing his eyes slightly. "Just there, lying on the beach." He pointed in the direction of the distant coastline.Belle squinted, her gaze following the direction of the boy's finger, but she could not make out anything in the dim moonlight.

"I think it's waiting for me to feed it the rest of him," Peter added, tilting his head to the side, his gaze still trained on something far in the distance.

"Him?" Belle asked, her brow crinkling in confusion.

"Hook." Peter clarified, turning to face her.

A chill slid down Belle's spine at the memory of the carving downstairs: a man with a hook standing on the chest of a small boy.

"He's the one who killed your friend, Scout," she stated quietly, watching him as he nodded solemnly and turned around to sit on his makeshift mattress.

"He was...coming after me. He's wanted me dead for as long as I can remember..." Peter fidgeted with a leaf on his tunic, frowning slightly.Belle slowly walked over, sitting down beside him.

"One day, when Hook was on the island looking for us, the Lost Boys and I snuck onto his ship. We wanted to commandeer it, just for fun," he continued, lowering his head farther to stare into his lap.

"Hook and his men came back before we could cast off. I told the boys to run, but Tootles fell behind... I shouldn't have brought him along. He's the smallest; I should've known better," Peter pulled his knees to his chest, his face flushing slightly.Belle gently placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly.

"Scout went back with me to get him," he continued quietly, "He was always close to Tootles. They were like brothers. He distracted Hook so I could grab Tootles and fly him to shore."

"I heard yelling. I left Tootles on the beach with the others to go back. But I took too long.When I got there, Hook had--Scout was--" he tightened his grip on his knees, his face paling at the memory of the boy's tiny, slain body lying on the _Jolly Roger_ 's deck.

Belle rubbed small circles between the boy's shoulder blades, fear and sorrow warring within her.The thought of someone so cruel hunting these children inspired a wave of horror to well in her chest.

"Maybe if I had gotten to Scout a little faster...If I hadn't encouraged the boys to play along in the first place..." Peter sighed, resting his elbows on his knees and sinking his hands into his messy hair.  
"He's gone. Scout's gone, and it's all my fault," he whispered, lowering his head and squeezing his eyes shut.Belle watched as he clutched his hair, his hands shaking slightly.

She reached a hand under his chin, gently pulling his face so their gazes met. The world of hurt and guilt she saw in his eyes made her chest ache.

"This is not your fault, Peter," she murmured, placing her hand on his cheek.Peter stared at her, wishing he could believe her words. 

"You were only playing," she assured him, "You couldn't have known the pirates would come back so soon."

He shook his head slowly, staring once more into his lap.Belle rested her hand on his shoulder, wishing she knew what else she could say to ease his pain.

"It's getting late. We've an early start tomorrow," he said quietly, and Belle recognized the dismissal.Giving the boy's shoulder one last comforting squeeze, she rose to her feet and walked over to the hatch in the floor.

"Wait," Peter called suddenly. Belle paused her steps, turning to face him.

"Thank you, again, for fixing the bracelet," he said quietly, holding up the wrist around which the silver chain glittered.

"Goodnight, Peter." Belle responded, smiling softly.

"Goodnight," he smiled back, a hint of mischief glinting in his gaze, "Tinker Belle."


	14. Chapter 14

Rumplestiltskin stood near the edge of a rickety dock, gazing down at his reflection in the navy blue water, a warm breeze blowing lightly against his form.He wondered if any remnants of life lingered behind his eyes, or if like Hook's they had been smothered and replaced with inhuman bitterness.

The breeze tickling the hairs at the base of his neck suddenly gained in strength, sending a chill down his spine as it dried the perspiration on his head and back.He turned his gaze upward, watching as the tranquility of the sky melted into an expanse of red, the sun eclipsing so that all the world seemed to be bathed in blood. White-capped waves sloshed against the side of the dock, bubbling like molten tar. The notes of a dark chuckle suddenly echoed behind him.Rumplestiltskin whirled around, his shoulders tense at the familiarity of the laugh.

Hook stood coolly at the end of the dock, as though he had emerged from the ocean's dark depths himself, his lips curled in a primal sneer. The sinister captain's right arm was wound tight about the slender waist of Belle, pressing her back flush against his chest. She stared at Rumplestiltskin, unadulterated terror welling in the depths of her azure eyes. The curve of a silver hook gleamed against the pale flesh of her neck.

Rumplestiltskin lurched in their direction, fury roiling inside him. Before he could advance more than two steps, however, his dark compeller spoke.

"Kill the boy," Hook commanded harshly; Rumplestitlskin froze, the unbreakable chains of magic wrapped about his bones abruptly constricting.The captain curtly nodded his head in the direction of the shore.Rumplestiltskin's body obediently turned on its heel. Several meters in front of him crouched a boy. He wore a tunic sewn from a combination of cloth and tree leaves, and appeared to be drawing something in the white sand.

Rumplestiltskin faced Hook again, his mind frantically trying to find a way out of this murderous plot.

"Now," his compeller snarled, pressing his hook closer to Belle's throat.A small whimper escaped her lips as a crimson bead of her blood trickled from beneath the sharpened point.

The command felt like fire in Rumplestiltskin's veins, and he bit back a pained shout as his body once more turned itself in the direction of the boy, who was still obliviously tracing patterns in the soft sand.Horror at the crime he was about to commit twisted Rumplestiltskin's insides as his malediction forced his legs to furtively approach the shoreline.

He wanted to warn the boy, tell him to run, but the effort would be wasted.Once compelled, Rumplestiltskin knew he would not stop, would not rest, until the command was fulfilled.

Slowly his steps brought him nearer to the child.The world was completely silent; the only sound he heard was the low thud of his footsteps on the wood of the dock.His shadow seeped over the boy's figure, enshrouding him in darkness.The boy remained focused on his picture, his finger moving around and around in a small circle.Now standing directly behind his victim, Rumplestiltskin slowly raised the sword he had not realized he was carrying.He looked down, his heart leaping painfully into his throat.

The boy was drawing a spinning wheel.

Rumplestiltskin jolted upright, panting raggedly. His gaze darted about his prison, seeking but finding no sign of the mysterious boy or his hooked nemesis.The jarring notes of a rooster's crow suddenly echoed on the wind as the first rays of sunlight crawled over the eastern horizon. The low thuds of Hook's men pulling themselves from their bunks sounded above.

Rumplestiltskin stretched widely, his head throbbing painfully as another loud crow pierced the early morning air.He had fallen asleep slumped against the iron bars of the brig's door. His fingers were coated in grease and rust from picking at the lock through most of the night.He brought a slightly shaking hand to his forehead, pushing the damp locks of his hair back.His pulse thrummed in his veins as if he had just run a marathon. _A dream_ , he assured himself, _it was only a dream..._ Rumplestiltskin rubbed a hand over his eyes; the reality of his predicament seemed even more biting now with the vivid memory of the dream fresh in his mind.

Panic bubbled like hot oil in Rumplestiltskin's veins. He needed to get out of this cell before Hook delivered another command.He needed to find Belle and return to the land they had so foolishly left, the land where is son truly was.Stretching the crick out of his neck, he leaned sideways against the door to his prison and reached once more to fiddle with the heavy lock.The padlock was rusty, but not to the point of crumbling.It was a simple enough device; if he could only find something to use as a makeshift key...

The dull thuds of a pair of feet descending the ladder from the ship's deck forced Rumplestiltskin to abandon his task and retreat farther into his cell.A burly man with a thick brown beard sneered as he approached, carrying a tin pail and a small bundle in his grubby hands. He pulled a flintlock pistol from beneath his vest, aiming it at Rumplestiltskin as he shoved the key into door's lock.The pirate's beady eyes narrowed as he pulled the heavy door open enough to toss the small bundle inside. As it bounced on the floor, Rumplestiltskin saw that it was a stale piece of bread wrapped in a grimy handkerchief. The tin pail shortly followed, half of the water inside it sloshing onto the floor.

The pirate glared at Rumplestiltskin, his pistol still pointed in his direction as he slammed the brig's door shut.Rumplestiltskin smirked; it was foolish for the pirate to expect him to make an attempt to escape in broad daylight, when the entire crew and their captain were awake.

Shoving the pistol back beneath his vest, the pirate turned about and clambered up the ladder to the deck.Once his booted feet disappeared through the hatch, Rumplestiltskin scrambled toward the pail, pulling it up to his lips and gulping down a third of the remaining water inside.He reveled in the cool sensation of the liquid sliding down his throat, grateful that it was still too dark inside the cell to see if it was blood.Grimacing slightly, he shoved the morsel of bread into his mouth, chewing without tasting and taking another gulp of water to wash it down.

Replacing the pail on the floor, Rumplestiltskin once more resumed his task of picking the lock.He ran his fingers along the door's hinges and pulled hard on the bars, testing for any sign of weakness.A sign of movement outside of the small circular window caught his eye.Slowly he pulled himself to his feet, craning his neck to peer outside of the porthole.

Two tiny figures danced on the wind in the distance.At first Rumplestiltskin believed them to be two birds, sparrows perhaps, but as they neared he could make out the shadowy shapes of two tiny pairs of arms and legs.Squinting, he could detect the merest hint of a colorful aura surrounding each of them: one orange and one violet.

Cursing inwardly, he flattened himself against the darkest corner of his cell, letting the thick shadows curl around and conceal him.He had been betrayed twice now by the winged cockroaches; he would not be fooled again.

His ears could just detect the low hum of the fairies' wings as they approached the port side of the _Jolly Roger_.No doubt they were checking to ensure that the Blue Fairy's ploy had been successfully executed. Grateful that the porthole was too miniscule to allow much light through, Rumplestiltskin pressed himself closer to the bulkhead. 

The little creatures alighted on the circular rim of the porthole, cupping their hands against the glass to peer inside.The orange one turned to face the purple one, apparently saying something.The latter shrugged, and they both glanced once more into the belly of the ship. Rumplestiltskin held his breath, itching to launch a burst of magic at the tiny devils, but willing himself instead to remain silent and motionless in the shadows. He held his breath as the purple one stared intently in the direction of where he hid.After a moment her gaze wandered away, and Rumplestiltskin bit back a sigh of relief.

Seeing nothing, the fairies took off once more, flying low to avoid passing too close to Hook's cabin window.He watched as their diminutive figures disappeared in brightening morning sky. 

With a sigh that was half-relieved and half-exasperated, Rumplestiltskin slid to the floor, nearly overturning the tin pail of water.With his brow furrowed slightly, he reached over to pick it up, examining it intently.He wrapped his fingers about the thin handle, tugging slightly.His lips stretched into a small smirk as he realized that, should he manage to detach it from the pail, the handle would be the perfect size for a makeshift key.

 

* * *

 

"Pssst!"

The annoying hiss of a lone Neverbug creeped through Belle's walls of blissful unconsciousness. Frowning slightly, she rolled onto her side, halfheartedly waving at the air to encourage the insect to fly off.

"Psssssst! Tinker Belle!"

Belle's eyes shot open at the whispered sound of her peculiar but charming nickname. Oh, it was not a Neverbug.Grinning broadly, Peter stood above her head, a large burlap sack slung over his shoulder.Belle smiled lightly at him, pushing herself up on her elbows and rubbing the sleep out of her eyes with a fist.She had fallen asleep beneath the window in the lowest cabin, using her folded green jacket as a pillow.From her seat she could see Neverland's sky just beginning to lighten as dawn approached. A gentle breeze wafted through the window, carrying with it the sweet fragrance of Neverland's flowers as they sleepily opened their petals.

"We'll check the waterside first," Peter explained, walking over to the small table and heaving his bag atop it with a slight grunt. "It's not far from where we found you, and you said you two were looking for water before you got separated." 

Belle nodded, rising to her feet and stretching widely.She raked her fingers through her curls a few times, forsaking the attempt when it became evident that their wild tangles were completely untamable.She watched as Peter overturned the burlap sack, dozens of smooth skipping stones clattering on the table's wooden surface.Shooting Belle a beaming smile, he snatched up a handful and began hiding them throughout the cabin.

"What are you doing?" Belle asked as the boy hovered a foot off the ground to place one of the rocks in a hollow knot in the cabin wall. 

"It's a sort of scavenger hunt for the boys. It'll keep them busy while we're gone," Peter explained, returning to the ground and crouching low to place a few under the table. "Keep them out of trouble," he added quietly, sitting back on his heels to inspect his work, his gaze briefly traveling to the carving of Scout on the wall.

Belle watched him for a moment, touched by how much he cared for his friends. Though not even the eldest, he seemed to assume the role of their guardian.Smiling softly, Belle picked up a handful of the stones herself and helped the curious boy conceal them about the room and the vine staircase.

The first golden rays of the morning sun were just peeking over the eastern horizon when they had hidden the last of the skipping stones.Turning in place to admire their work, Peter grinned toothily at Belle. With a wink, he somersaulted out of the window and soared to the tops of the oak tree.Laughing lightly and shaking her head, Belle leaned out of the window to watch him. 

Through the gaps in the tree's vibrant green leaves, she could see Peter with his hands cupped around his mouth.He inhaled deeply, and a moment later the long, loud notes of a rooster's call echoed all throughout the Drey.The boy's crow sounded remarkably realistic, and Belle found herself laughing more loudly as she heard the yawns and groans of the other boys as they stirred awake.She heard Peter wonder aloud about the whereabouts of an entire bag of new skipping stones, hinting that they must have been hidden by a pair of elves all throughout the tree house.His words were quickly followed by the sounds of trampling feet and laughter as the boys scrambled from their platform beds and started racing down the vine staircase.

Peter flew back down to the lowest cabin, climbing through the window and flashing Belle another broad grin, his eyes glinting with mischief.

"Shall we?" He asked, gesturing grandly to the stairs.Shaking her head and smiling at his antics, Belle followed him out of the cabin.

She could hear the triumphant shout of Tootles echoing from the Drey as they walked into the surrounding forest; he must have found the first skipping rock. 

"One down, forty-nine to go," Peter laughed, looking back over his shoulder at the tree house.

As they walked farther into the forest, Belle could not help but notice the affection with which Neverland seemed to react to the boy's presence.Dangling vines whispered excitedly against each other and flowers turned their pretty, multi-colored heads as he passed.Tiny finches hopped between the branches above, tweeting merrily as they followed the pair down the forest path.Occasionally Peter leapt into the air to swing on a low-hanging branch, hovering slightly longer than natural when he let himself fall back to the ground. One time he came back down with a white magnolia blossom in his hand.

Bowing dramatically and sniggering, he presented it to Belle with a falsely portentous, "For you, my lady, if you'll have it."

His actions seemed so terribly familiar in that moment that Belle almost felt dizzy with the sense of déjà vu. 

"Thank you," she said after a moment, laughing softly.She curtseyed daintily and tucked the flower behind her ear, smiling broadly at the boy's laughter.They walked in silence for a while, their eyes scanning their surroundings for any sign of Belle's missing companion.

"Belle?" Peter spoke quietly as they climbed over a large fallen tree.

"Hmm?" Belle responded, frowning slightly as she focused on trying to scale the log without slipping on the lichen that covered its bark.

"Why did you and your friend come to Neverland?" He asked, holding out a hand to help her.

"We're looking for his son," Belle explained, smiling gratefully as she grabbed his hand and pulled herself over.

"His son?" Peter repeated, his brow crinkling slightly. "Is he one of the Lost Boys?"

Belle looked over at him, unable to translate the emotion she saw in his eyes; it seemed like a mixture of both hope and dread. 

"I don't know," she responded quietly, chewing her bottom lip. "I'm not sure how old he is. They were separated a long time ago," she explained.Peter nodded, fixing his gaze on the grown before him as they continued walking.

In truth she had found herself often wondering during her short stay at the Drey if one of the boys could possibly be his son.She and her love — oh, if only she could remember his name! — had been separated before he could tell her more about his child.She had originally assumed that his son would be much older, but from what Peter had told her, it seemed that the boys did not age — or perhaps aged very slowly — in Neverland.Although the possibility that one of them could be his son now existed, she had no idea how she could go about determining which one was, considering they did not remember their parents.Peter had said Slightly still remembered his a little; perhaps she could talk to him when they — 

"Hear that?" Peter suddenly asked, cutting off her train of thought, his face brightening and a slow smile stretching his lips.Belle closed her eyes, listening closely.She could hear the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore, and then sliding gently back out to sea.When she opened her eyes Peter was grinning more broadly, his eyes glinting in excitement.

Reaching for Belle's hand, Peter led them at a brisk pace toward a narrow opening in the tree line.When they cambered through it, Belle's jaw dropped at the beauty of the sight that greeted them.

The water of the ocean glittered like sapphires in the early afternoon sun. When the waves collided with the white sand of the shore and sent plumes of mist into the air, the beach was suddenly filled with dozens of tiny, vibrant rainbows.Not a single cloud lingered above, and the sky was such a radiant blue that it was almost impossible to distinguish where it ended and the ocean began.Releasing Belle's hand, Peter started walking toward a wooden dock that stretched several meters into the sea, rising only about a foot above the water. Belle followed him, watching as a flock of seagulls soared above, squawking a fond hello as they passed the boy.

They stopped at the edge of the dock, Peter still smiling widely as his eyes took in the breathtaking view before him.

"This is my favorite part of Neverland," he whispered after a moment, reaching down to quickly brush his fingers along the cool surface of the sea. A tiny minnow jumped happily into the air.

"I can see why," Belle said, letting her eyes trace the tranquil scenery once more as she deeply inhaled the salty air.

"This is where I learned to fly," Peter revealed quietly, stepping closer to the dock's edge."The fairies taught me. I don't think I've ever been happier," he added, letting himself hover a few inches above the wood, grinning. Belle smiled at him, and after a moment he alighted once more on the dock.He crouched down, dipping his hand once more into the water. 

"There used to be mermaids around here, you know.They used to sit on the rocks by the cove over there." He pointed to a cluster of boulders lying in the water near the ledge of a cliff. 

"You would have loved them," he said, smiling over at Belle."They had the most beautiful singing voices I've ever heard."He glanced at her then, blushing slightly, "That is, until I heard you sing," he added quietly, his ears turning red.Belle smiled at the sweet boy, ruffling his dark hair with her hand.

"What happened to them? Why don't they sing here anymore?" Belle asked after a moment, leaning forward to look more closely at the cove.Peter's gaze darkened slightly; his eyes scanned the expanse of the ocean, glaring.

"Hook and his men hunted them," he explained angrily, and Belle wondered why she had not arrived at that conclusion herself.The villain seemed to be behind any tragedy that took place on the island.

"Mermaids are clever, but they don't have weapons, or magic like the fairies," Peter added, peering down at the water."It wasn't long before they were all...gone."

Belle felt a new wave of horror surge in her veins at the boy's mention of Hook, a murderer of children and, apparently, mermaids.If this man was holding her love prisoner... She shuddered, willing the panic she felt rising in her chest to subside. 

"There might be a few left, hiding somewhere," Peter said hopefully, misinterpreting Belle's reaction.She smiled feebly at him, and they started back toward the beach to search for signs of her companion.

They walked along a wide stretch of the shore for hours, climbing the dunes and glancing into the trees for any indication that someone had recently been there.The sun was starting its slow descent toward western horizon when they finished inspecting the rocky cove for a second time.

They sat down on one of the boulders, Belle sighing and running a hand tiredly through her wild curls.Peter watched her, frowning slightly.

"The fairies are still searching. Maybe they've had better luck," he offered, his lips twitching into an assuring smile that did not quite reach his eyes.Belle shrugged, trying, but failing, to find comfort in the boy's words.

"Let's go back to where we found you," Peter declared abruptly, rising to his feet. "It's not far from here, there might be something there we didn't notice before."

They left the beautiful waterside in slightly lower spirits than before, but with a renewed determination to make some sort of progress in their search.Peter was right, the hillside where they found Belle was not far from the shore.They reached the top of the steep slope within an hour, and Belle's stomach twisted slightly as she realized just how far she must have fallen that night.She reached a hand to the bruise on her forehead, both immensely grateful she had not suffered a more serious injury, and terribly worried that her love may not have been so fortunate.

They scoured the area, brushing leaves and shrubbery aside to see if anything valuable to their search lay underneath.After a while, Peter's triumphant cry met Belle's ears.She turned around to face him, her heart thudding frantically with hope.

Grinning, he pointed to a low-hanging branch. Belle's eyes followed his finger.A long arrow with a colorful feather dangling from the end stuck there.The sight of a lethal weapon in the place where she and the man she loved had likely been separated replaced her hope with a painful rush of fear.She felt her throat begin to constrict.

Seeing Belle's fearful response, Peter quickly plucked the arrow out of the tree and approached her.

"Don't worry, they're not bad people. They just don't trust strangers much," he explained hurriedly. "If they have him, they won't hurt him. It's probably all a misunderstanding.We can go to their camp today; they know me, it'll be alright."He smiled as Belle nodded shakily.

"We can head there now. You'll be back with your friend by nightfall," he said confidently, reaching out a hand for her to take.She clasped his hand, shooting one last apprehensive glance at the lethal arrow resting in Peter's other hand.

_ Oh, she hoped the boy was right _ ... 


	15. Chapter 15

The sun was burning red just above the western horizon when Belle and Peter entered what the latter called "Indian territory." The vegetation was thick and overgrown, but parted for Peter, so that if Belle stayed close behind she could keep herself from its thorny clutches.  A chain of steep hills surrounded them, and in their cool shade glowed hundreds of light blue mushrooms.  Belle tripped over one, nearly colliding into Peter, and as she stumbled to regain her balance her right pant leg split along the seam up to the middle of her thigh.

She heard Peter chortle quietly, and when her flushed face looked up from the sorry state of her jeans, she saw him shaking his head and smiling.  She stood up straight, crossing her arms and quirking her eyebrow at the boy.

"Sorry," he chuckled, "It's just...you look like one of us, Tinker Belle."  He laughed again, grinning impishly.

Rolling her eyes and smiling slightly, Belle took in her appearance.  She held her arms out in front of her; the sleeves of her black shirt were torn at the elbows, and dirt painted the milky white skin that glared through.  The knees of her pants were also muddy from the many times she had tripped and been unable to catch herself in time, and now a large tear split the right leg wide open.  Sighing heavily, she brought a hand up to her curls. She did not need a mirror to know that they were an untamable mess.  Belle was not opposed to getting dirty, but wearing the same clothes and not properly washing for days on end was not included amongst her favorite pastimes.  In fact, she realized with a slight shudder, it reminded her too powerfully of the time she spent in the psy—

"Don't worry," Peter said suddenly, gratefully and unwittingly sparing her from this particular train of thought, "We're almost there." He sent her an assuring smile and turned around to continue trekking through the forest.

After another hour of walking, when the sun was just beginning to disappear beneath the horizon and the soft sighs of Neverland's flowers preparing for rest floated in the air, Peter stopped suddenly.  Belle felt the chill of apprehension trickle along her skin as he motioned for her to stay silent and scanned their surroundings.  

The area was filled with massive weeping willows, the tips of their long vines brushing softly against the forest floor.  Peculiar conic structures covered in leaves and moss surrounded them; Belle could not tell if they had been constructed or had grown there.  As she leaned slightly to peer more closely at one, Peter suddenly grabbed her arm and yanked them both down to the forest floor.  

Belle felt her stomach clench painfully in fear as an arrow soared above them, embedding itself in the trunk of a nearby willow.  She looked over at Peter, her worried expression transforming into one of shock when she found him smiling broadly.  He stood up slowly, his grin widening. Belle followed him, her brow crinkling in confusion and insides still twisting in anxiety.

Peter was staring at something behind her, and when she turned around to determine what, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

A young man stood there, grinning toothily.  At least, she thought he was a man.  His physique was humanoid, but his limbs seemed longer, as though they had spent a lifetime climbing and swinging from Neverland's trees.  He was thin, but not unhealthy, and only wore a pair of light buckskin pants than ended mid-calf.  His hair was as black as ink and cut short so that it stuck up all around.  But perhaps most fascinating of all was his face.  His lips were thin and his cheekbones high and well-defined.  She could not pinpoint the color of his skin; it seemed to absorb all the colors that surrounded them: the dark indigo of the sky, the deep red of the waning sunlight, the warm brown of the soil beneath their feet.  She turned her gaze to his slightly narrowed eyes, and with a flush of heat to her face, Belle realized he had been staring, too.

She grinned sheepishly and watched as he reached out a hand to pinch the end of one of her curls between his thumb and forefinger.  He gently pulled it down until it was straight, and then released it, smiling slightly when it happily bounced back into place.  He leaned slightly closer, and they stared at each other for a long moment, his vibrant green eyes boring into her blue ones.  His pupils were like large pools of tar, and Belle wondered if it was possible to drown in them.  The only other set of eyes she had found as bewitching belonged to the man she loved.

The Neverland native backed up suddenly and nodded, seeming to have found something Belle did not realizing he was searching for in the first place.  He looked around, and Belle mirrored him, her eyes widening in surprise when she found they were surrounded by a dozen more Indians.  They stared intently at the new arrivals, each of their eyes a piercing shade of emerald.  They did not seem to need to blink as often.

"Um...hello," Belle greeted, smiling nervously and raising her hand in a small wave.  The Indians looked at each other, whispering excitedly in what sounded like a combination of nature sounds: the low whistle of the wind, the rustling sound of leaves falling from their trees...  Qentu's eyes widened slightly and he grinned again, reaching a long-fingered hand past her to affectionately swat at Peter's head.  Peter shoved at his shoulder, laughing.  The young native murmured something to Peter, glancing around at his fellow tribesmen and women and again at Belle.

"He wants to know if you are the one who sang the lullaby; they recognize your voice," Peter explained to Belle, and then nodded to Qentu who in turn nodded to his companions.

The entire crowd seemed to spring into action then, and Belle was suddenly surrounded by a group of native women, who touched her tangled hair and gestured to her tattered clothes, quirking their eyebrows and looking at each other.  Belle felt herself blush as she took in their deerskin dresses, some of them decorated with beads and shells, others smeared with blue dyes that shined delicately as they moved; she felt rather inadequate in her torn jeans and top.

After a few moments Peter placed a hand on his native friend's shoulder, speaking to him in their unique and wild tongue.

The young man nodded, turning on his heel and striding farther into the camp.  Suddenly Peter was back at Belle's side, taking her hand as they followed him. 

"There's a meeting between the tribe's leaders right now, but afterwards Qentu's going to take us to the Elder; he's the only one who can speak like us. I can speak to them a little, but it's mostly guesswork," Peter explained as they passed a larger dwelling with small wisps of smoke leaking out of the top.  "It shouldn't be long," he smiled.

Another young Indian bounded up to Peter, her long braids bouncing as she leaned on his shoulder to whisper something in his ear.  She wore a short, tan deerskin dress peppered with smooth seashells and turquoise beads, and had a bright orange lily tucked behind her ear.  Peter laughed loudly at something she said, turning to face Belle.

"She wants to know if you like looking like a Lost Boy," he chuckled, grinning mischievously.

Belle felt her face flush slightly. "Well, I—uh—didn't exactly plan..." Her voice trailed off as she shrugged and shook her head, smiling embarrassedly.  The Indian girl's face brightened suddenly, her green eyes shining.  She stretched out her long arms, placing them on Belle's shoulders as her gaze trailed up and down her figure.  Nodding once to herself, she grabbed Belle's hand and pulled her in the direction of one of the tents.  The gaggle of women who had previously crowded around Belle joined them, babbling away with a series of shushing noises and whistles.

Belle looked back helplessly at Peter, who laughed and assured her that they "only want to play" and he would come get her when Qentu was ready to take them to the Elder.

A moment later Belle found herself seated inside one of the Indians' tent dwellings, a pair of women combing their long fingers through her wild curls and starting to braid them.  They pulled the curls back from her face, weaving them into two braids that ended at the back of her head, letting the rest of her curls cascade down her back.  An older woman with grey streaks in her long, thick braid crouched beside Belle with a bowl of water and a strip of cloth.  Dipping the cloth in the water, she scrubbed at the dirt stains on Belle's face and arms; Belle could not stifle a laugh as the older woman tutted just as her childhood nurse had when she'd come in after an afternoon of climbing trees.

The slender girl with the lily in her hair kneeled before Belle, a small bundle tucked under her arm.  She reached out and tugged lightly at the tear in Belle's jeans, pointed at the rips in her top, and then shook her head.  Grinning widely, she unfolded the bundle in her arms, shaking out a simple but lovely deerskin dress.

Belle felt her lips stretch into a grateful and relieved smile at the prospect of being able to change out of her worn and dirtied clothes.  "Thank you, thank you so—" Belle began, but the girl cut her off, slapping away the hands that were braiding Belle's hair and pushing the dress into her arms, encouraging her to put it on.  Belle laughed lightly, pulling herself to her feet to slip out of her tattered clothes and into the dress.

The material felt amazingly smooth against her skin, so much more comfortable than the coarse jeans she had been wearing, and Belle could not resist twirling around to watch the skirt fan out slightly. The dress was a practical length, falling just above her knee and allowing much freedom of movement.  It fit her frame without clinging, and was a soft tan color that complimented her pale skin.  The neckline was a wide but modest, with the tops of the short sleeves resting on the edge of her shoulders.  A delicate line of fringe stretched across her chest, and a small turquoise bead dangled from the center.

The native women smiled as Belle enthusiastically thanked them again, not comprehending her words, but understanding the sentiment behind them.  A pair of long, copper-skinned arms wound about her waist, and when Belle looked down she saw a belt made of several strings of beads and shells being tied by two long-fingered hands.  The soft purples and blues of the nacre glimmered beautifully in the last rays of the sun peeking through the tent's opening.  Belle stared at the young girl who had wound the accessory about her waist, speechless with gratitude.

"It—it's beautiful. Thank you, truly," Belle breathed, twirling around once more.  

The girl smiled at her, fiddling with the flower in her hair and winking playfully.

A high, chirping sound like that of a cricket echoed outside the tent, and a moment later Qentu poked his head inside.  His eyes widened in surprise as he took in Belle's appearance, and Belle felt her face flush as she folded her hands in front of her, smiling at her feet.  Shaking his head slightly, he grinned at her, beckoning for her to come outside.

"I figured they'd like you," Peter said, grinning as she climbed through the tent's opening. "You could be one of their princesses," he added, nodding at her new outfit and braided hair.  Belle laughed lightly, and sent another grateful smile to the small crowd of women.

"Anyway, Qentu says we can go talk to the Elder now," Peter said, pointing toward the largest of the tents.  Apprehension once more filled Belle, but the memory of how kind the Indians had been to her quelled much of her worry that her love would be in danger if they had him.  With a steadying breath, she followed Peter and Qentu in the direction of the Elder's quarters.

They walked silently into the large tent.  Heavy, sweet-smelling smoke swirled from a small pile of embers smoldering in the center.  A small man with hunched shoulders sat beside the fire, his face pale and wrinkled like an old piece of parchment.  Peter stepped forward, bowing his head respectfully.

"My friend traveled here with someone, a man, from a different land," Peter explained, gesturing to Belle, "They were separated, and we're looking for him. Is he here?"

"He is not with us," the Elder responded, his voice like the croak of a bullfrog.

Belle felt her hope crumble at the ancient man's words.

A shorter man with long hair that reached his waist leaned toward the elder, speaking quietly in their peculiar tongue.

"While they were hunting, Inqtow and his men saw the man you seek and this woman," he nodded toward Belle, "running from the cruel ones."

Belle's brow furrowed in confusion.  She looked over at Peter, the sudden shadowed look on his face filling her with fear.  The short man—Inqtow—was speaking once more into the elder's ear.

"Pirates," Peter whispered to her, and any further explanation was cut short as the Elder spoke again.

"They fell, and this one," the ancient man gestured again to Belle, "did not rise. Her mate bound her with rope and left with the cruel ones."

Belle's mouth fell open in shock.  _He_ tied her up?  But, how could he?  He loved her, had sworn to protect her... Why had he left willingly with Hook and his pirates? Unless...

Belle swayed on her feet, terror gripping her heart so powerfully she worried she would faint.  Qentu stepped closer and placed a hand on her shoulder, concern written all over his foreign features. 

"Thank you," Belle heard Peter say to the Elder, his voice sounding miles away.  She vaguely felt him rest a hand on her other shoulder, and she was led back outside.

The cool night air and gentle breeze did nothing to calm the panic welling within Belle's chest.  She felt Peter guide her to sit down on a log, heard him speaking but could not understand his words. 

She felt cold and hot all at once, fear seeping through her veins like venom.  She could see the crooked blade in her mind, black letters spelling out a name she still could not remember.  To think that _Hook,_ murderer of children and mermaids alike, possessed the dagger, held the fate and powers of the man she loved in his ruthless clutches...

Several Indians released a shout as two glowing spheres of light suddenly descended from the treetops, one orange and one purple. Belle was pulled from her dark reverie as the tiny figures of Buidhe and Flannach soared over to where she and Peter sat, alighting on the boy's knee. 

"We've searched most of the island, even the marshlands," Buidhe spoke breathily, staring up at her audience. "No sign of—"

Peter shook his head, raising a hand to quiet her.  "We know where he is," he said gravely, glancing over at Belle. "Hook has him."

The fairies gasped, their gazes darting between the boy and the woman. 

"But...we searched the _Jolly Roger_ this morning, we didn't see him," Flannach breathed, bringing a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide.

"The Indians saw the pirates lead him away," Peter said quietly, "They never lie."

"And we only searched part of the ship; it was too dark to see much below deck. He could be down there," Buidhe added, her gaze sympathetic as she looked over at Belle, who sat unmoving, her face pale.

"I'll go there tomorrow before dawn, while Hook's men are still asleep. I know the ship well; if he's there, I'll be able to find him," Peter assured Belle, watching as she nodded shakily.

"If you'd like, we can guide you back to the Drey," Buidhe offered quietly, but Peter shook his head.

"We'll stay here for tonight. But keep watch over the other boys, will you?"

"Of course," Flannach promised, her wings buzzing slightly as she prepared to fly off.

"Be careful tomorrow, Peter," Buidhe said, "If you need us, you need only call." She leapt into the air then, her purple wings outspread and catching on the gentle breeze.  Peter thanked them, nodding as they bowed and soared off into the night.  He watched them until their colorful orbs disappeared in the thick brush of the forest, before turning his gaze to Belle.

Belle's skin had paled so that her blue eyes stood out like two sapphires, staring blankly ahead. Her hands were clasped together in her lap, trembling slightly.

"Belle?" Peter prompted quietly, concern written in his features.  She did not respond, her eyes glassy as they slowly filled with unshed tears.

"Are you alright?" He asked, placing a hand tentatively on her shoulder.  He watched as she bit down on her bottom lip, two tears rolling down her cheeks.

"It could still be a misunderstanding," he said hopefully, though he was sure Belle knew the chances were slim at best.  She lowered her head, staring at her twisted hands as a breathy sob escaped her lips.

"You know," he said after a moment, tilting his head as he watched her, "I get it."

Belle looked up at him, her gaze questioning.

"I can see what your friend sees in you. Why you're so special to him," he explained, grinning softly as Belle's own lips lifted in a weak smile.  He slowly reached out a hand toward her face, pausing and letting his fingers hover a moment above her cheek, before wiping one of her tears away.  Belle flinched faintly in surprise, her glassy eyes widening.  Peter balanced the little drop on the tip of his finger, staring at it intently. Belle watched him silently, her brow crinkled slightly in confusion.

He closed his eyes, squinting them slightly in concentration and inhaling deep.  Suddenly, he blew away the teardrop, his cheeks puffing out comically at the power of his breath.  Belle could not hold back a chuckle at the boy's curious antics, her laughter growing as he opened his eyes and flashed her a cheeky grin, his eyes glinting.

"I guess it worked," he chuckled, turning to face her fully.

"What worked?" Belle asked, her laughter calming.

"My wish. You're laughing, aren't you?" He explained, crossing his arms proudly and smiling as she laughed again.

"It always cheers Tootles up when he's upset or has a nightmare. Go ahead, you try," he encouraged, pointing to the lone tear lingering on her slightly flushed cheek.

He looked at her expectantly, and Belle could not help but feel a little foolish as she wiped away the little droplet with the tip of her index finger.  Staring at the glistening tear for a moment, she closed her eyes.  Inhaling deeply, albeit a little shakily, she silently wished to be united once more with the man she loved, for him to be safe and whole and by her side.  A moment later she blew hard, feeling the tear fly off the end of her finger.

When Belle opened her eyes, she released a surprised gasp, quickly followed by another peal of laughter: Peter floated upside down before her, his head even with hers and his cheeks dimpled by a broad smile.  He echoed her laughter with a chuckle of his own, turning himself back upright and slowly descending to sit beside her on the log. 

"We'll find him, Tinker Belle," Peter declared quietly, his tone more solemn and his eyes shining with certainty.

"How can you be sure?" Belle asked, her slightly red-rimmed eyes boring into his.

"You made a wish, didn't you?" He grinned at her, and she could see the promise within his gaze.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence then, listening as the first soaring notes of Neverland's night music tumbled forth from a patch of gently swaying cattails. The toadstools scattered along the ground hummed a lilting melody as their faintly glowing caps bobbed to a rhythm of their own.  Offering Belle a parting soft smile, Peter wandered off to seat himself on the low-hanging branch of a nearby willow. The dangling vines whispered against each other as the boy's movements jostled them.  A moment later, the soft, breathy notes of his flute joined the ranks of the enchanting nighttime orchestra. 

Belle watched as the Indians milling about the camp paused their movements, closing their vibrant green eyes as the notes of the boy's melody and Neverland's gentle accompaniment twirled and danced the warm night air.  The native girl with the lily in her hair pirouetted in the distance, her long braids whirling about her grinning face.

Smiling to herself, Belle lied down to stare up at the ribbons of twinkling stars in Neverland's sky, letting the sweet symphony smooth the sharp edges of her anxiety.  As the soft notes surrounded her, she felt her eyelids begin to droop, finally succumbing to the gentle pull of slumber.

 


	16. Chapter 16

The sounds of soft, even breathing floated out of Peter's throat as he lay sprawled across the highest branch of an aged willow tree, his love of heights having lured him from his seat closer to the forest floor.A frown slowly bent his lips and his brow furrowed as his eyes darted back and forth beneath his closed eyelids.The boy's limbs began to twitch slightly and his head intermittently lolled from side to side. His breathing quickened and a quiet whimper slipped past his frowning lips.

With a sharp gasp the boy suddenly jolted upright, his head pivoting as he anxiously scanned his surroundings.Placing a hand above his racing heart, Peter took several steadying breaths, closing his eyes as he inhaled deeply.

His nerves somewhat less frenzied, Peter slipped off the edge of the branch, steadily falling toward the ground several stories below. He landed a few meters from where Belle slept, her arm tucked beneath her head and her lips forming a small smile. Taking care not to disturb her, Peter walked past her in the direction of the tree line. A brief walk would do him good; Neverland always found ways to calm him.

Before venturing into the shadowed forest, Peter cast one more glance at the Indian camp. 

Although most of them had retreated to their tents, several natives lay beneath the stars on beds of leaves and pine needles. Wisps of smoke wafted from the fire pits scattered across the ground, their upkeep long ago abandoned in favor of slumber.

Peter turned in the direction of the forest, letting his legs carry him forward into its welcoming shade.

He did not pay much attention to the direction in which he trekked, staring instead at his bare feet.When he did finally take in his surroundings, he was surprised to find himself in a small clearing amidst hundreds of towering, ivy-covered oaks. Although he was certain he must still be in Neverland—was it even possible to leave? — he did not recognize the distinct, uncharacteristic stillness that enveloped the area.

Silence wrapped the world in its embrace as the last stars slowly faded in the lightening sky. The wind did not sigh and the vines did not whisper; the birds did not chirp and the toadstools did not hum. All was still in the early morning air.

Flashes of brilliant green light suddenly danced before Peter's eyes, their harsh presence intriguing and frightening all at once.They seemed to call to him, beckoning him closer, and although the boy felt no wind, the air around him was filled with low, despairing howls. Even as he walked nearer to the bright beams and felt the dry leaves crunching beneath his feet, he heard no other sound. 

As he approached, the flashes began to swirl, twisting and curling like a bizarre maelstrom of light.Everything around it grew dark, until the emerald vortex was all the boy could see.The dark, gaping center seemed to stretch infinitely, and a shudder of terror traced Peter's spine at the thought of falling into it. He wanted to flee, to put the entire width of the island between himself and the howling vortex, but his legs continued to drag him closer.

Suddenly, the maelstrom of light lurched toward him.Peter jumped back with a gasp, but the ground behind him had disappeared...

He was falling...falling...with no sign of ever stopping...

"Peter!" A shrill cry echoed in the distance as the boy hurtled through the empty air.

"Peter Pan," the distraught voice yelled again, "Wake up!"

Peter's eyelids snapped open. A rush of panic surged painfully in his chest as he watched the treetops above him soar farther and farther away.His mind blank with fear, the boy flailed his arms, hopelessly trying to grasp the hanging vines.

"Fly, Peter!" A tiny orb of green light whizzed past his head, and for one wild moment he wondered if it was a tendril of the vortex trying to reign him into its swirling center.

"Fly!" The voice shrieked in his ear.The small leaves brushed against his arms and torso as he continued to plummet to the earth. He was not going to stop, he was going to plunge deep into the ground that was waiting to swallow him up. _Fly_? How can I —

Peter _froze_ , his back hovering mere inches above the forest floor.For a brief moment, it seemed as though everything else around him had frozen as well.His heart pounded painfully in his heaving chest, and all he could hear was the sound of his own labored breathing as he worked to control it.

When he could finally will his body to move, Peter tentatively reached a trembling hand down, his fingers grazing the leaves beneath him.He swallowed, a jolt of fear surging in his stomach as he realized just how close he had come to... Peter shook his head, willing his thoughts in another direction.

Slowly, he raised himself to his feet, hovering above the ground for another moment before gently settling himself upon it.

"Aibreann," he breathed, his lips twitching into a half-smile as he took in the shimmering emerald appearance of the fairy flying before him.She was watching him intently, her russet eyes bright and her forehead creased in concern.

"I'm sorry if I startled you, Peter," she said quietly, still gazing concernedly at him. "You gave us quite a fright."She watched as Peter ran a hand through his hair, breathing deeply as he strived to regain composure. "Are you alright?"

"Us?" Peter asked, slightly confused, and then felt his face grow warm as he realized Belle was also watching him, worry etched in her features.She stood to Aibreann's right, her hands clasped together in front of her.

"Yeah," he laughed nervously, absentmindedly pulling at one of the leaves on his tunic. "Just lost my balance, that's all," he added with a shrug. Belle seemed unconvinced, her lips pressed together in a small frown.Aibreann gave him a long, searching look, before shaking her head slightly and flying so that she stood before both of them.

"I've come to escort your friend back to the Drey while you search the Jolly Roger," she explained, her wings buzzing behind her as she hovered closer. "If you'd like me to," she added to Belle, bowing her head in the woman's direction and smiling softly.

Belle nodded and returned the smile, even though worry settled heavily in her chest at the reminder of that morning's plan."Thank you," she said quietly, reaching out a hand so that Aibreann could clasp one of her fingertips in her own tiny hand, shaking it.

"We'd best be off now, so we can make sure we are there when Peter returns," Aibreann advised, placing slight emphasis on the word "when" as though she could somehow detect the fear undulating beneath Belle's composed expression, and wished to soothe it.She floated in the direction of the tree line, gently beckoning for Belle to walk beside her.

"Right," Belle murmured, though she did not move to follow the fairy, instead staring concernedly at Peter.She worried her bottom lip between her teeth as the magnitude of what the boy was about to do, what they might discover, washed over her.

"I won't be long," Peter assured Belle, moving to stand before her. "I've been to Hook's ship loads of times. I probably know it better than he does," he added, grinning broadly.When Belle still hesitated to leave, he reached out to grasp her hand.

"I'll come back. I'll bring your friend, too," Peter promised, briefly squeezing her hand before releasing it and launching himself into the air.As he soared up to the treetops, he turned his gaze downward, watching as Belle and Aibreann began their trek back to the Drey.He waved as Belle looked up at him once more, and smiled reassuringly as she returned the wave, before her slight figure disappeared in the thick shade of the tree line.

Peter's smile faded as he focused his gaze on the dark water in the distance.With a deep breath he propelled himself forward, determination to fulfill his promise to Belle welling in his heart.

 

* * *

 

The sound of metal scraping against metal echoed in the belly of the Jolly Roger.Rumplestiltskin sat slumped against his prison's door, his right arm wedged through the bars to fiddle with the heavy lock.

Sometime around late afternoon Rumplestiltskin had managed to detach the handle of the tin pail and bend it into a makeshift key for the lock on the cell door.However, the threat of one of Hook's men seeing him attempt to pick the lock had prevented him from utilizing the self-made device until well past nightfall, when the men's heavy footfalls and grating voices were replaced by silence.

The continued absence of a guard to survey him throughout the night inspired both relief and suspicion within Rumplestiltskin.The duties aboard the ship were not so demanding that one man could not be spared.The short, pudgy one with the striped shirt certainly could not prove much help on deck.Why, then, had Hook not assigned someone to keep watch over the brig?

The answer was simple, and had in fact been the reason so many of Rumplestiltskin's deals had turned out in his favor: the man placed an excessive amount of confidence in the power of magic, and too little focus on the power of words.

Confident that his efforts to escape his prison would not be detected, Rumplestiltskin had then spent the next few hours plunging the tin handle into the lock and maneuvering it this way and that, listening for the telltale clink that would indicate his success.Several times throughout the night he had been forced to abandon the attempt when the wood above him creaked loudly, lest the noise be the product of one of Hook's men rising from his bunk.

Neverland's moons hung low in the night sky, their bottom halves submerged beneath the horizon.Dawn would soon arrive. If he did not escape soon, he would have to spend another day in the Jolly Roger's brig, hoping his compeller did not realize the flaw in his previous command.It was a risk he was unwilling to take.

Fingers grimy with rust and grease, Rumplestiltskin doubled his efforts to pick the lock, closing his eyes and lending all of his attention to his sense of touch and hearing.

When he was seconds away from tossing the makeshift key aside and simply blasting the lock away with the little magic he possessed, a soft _clink_ met his ears. 

Rumplestiltskin's eyes shot open, and he could not withhold a smirk as the lock fell open into his waiting palm.Pulling himself to his feet, Rumplestiltskin wrapped his fingers around the bars of his prison's door.Slowly, lest the hinges creak, he pushed it open, listening intently for any sound of approaching footsteps.

No such sound met Rumplestiltskin's ears, and with a satisfied smirk he stepped past the bars of the brig, his feet carrying him in the direction of the ladder.

A loud creak in the floorboards above made him freeze in place, adrenaline soaring through his veins.He remained still, his senses on high alert as he waited for any indication that his escape attempt might be interrupted.

Several minutes passed without further incident, and with a steadying breath and a slight shake of the head, Rumplestiltskin continued once more toward the ladder. 

He ascended the rungs cautiously, listening and watching for any sign of Hook or his men.When he reached the deck, his eyes took in the soft teal of the eastern horizon lightening as dawn approached.It would not be long before the sinister captain and his crew awoke.If he had any hope of retrieving his dagger and escaping the confines of the Jolly Roger, he must act before the first rays of sunlight fell upon the land.

Taking care to conceal as much of himself as possible in the shadows of the ship's masts, Rumplestiltskin shuffled toward the doors to the captain's cabin.As he pressed himself against the ship's mast for a moment, he saw a sign of movement above the water in the distance.It looked as though something, or perhaps even someone, was soaring toward the Jolly Roger. A jolt of fear raced through him at the thought that it could be the boy Hook intended for him to slaughter.Rumplestiltskin rushed toward Hook's quarters, seized by a more urgent determination to find the dagger and flee. Throwing a furtive gaze about the ship's deck, he slowly pried them open, prepared to run and hurtle himself over the gunwales should his compeller sit awake inside.

Finding no sign of the captain, Rumplestiltskin vigilantly walked inside, his feet carrying him straight to the mahogany desk in the center of the chambers.Taking care not to upend the candlesticks or ink well resting on the glossy surface, he lifted the piles of maps and spare parchment.His hands shook slightly as they sifted through the thick papers.Locating no weapon beneath them, he pulled open the desk's sole drawer, flinching as the wood creaked loudly in protest.His gaze darted to the curtain hanging at the northern end of the cabin, behind which he presumed his compeller slept.When no sign of movement met his eyes, Rumplestitlskin continued his search.

Finding no dagger concealed amongst the drawer's contents, his attention turned to the elaborately decorated scarlet coat draped over the high back of the chair.Rumplestiltskin tentatively slid his hands beneath the lapels, checking first the right breast pocket, and then moving to check the left.

"Running, are you?" The snide but undoubtedly familiar voice of his dark compeller echoed behind him.For a moment Rumplestiltskin did not move or speak, staring down at the desk and coat before him as adrenaline pumped through his veins.Slowly, he straightened his posture and turned around, forcing his breathing to remain even and his face blank.

Hook stood several feet from him, dressed as though he had not slept.His dark eyes bore into Rumplestiltskin's, the expression contorting his features unreadable.Rumplestiltskin wondered if he had been there the entire time, watching silently as his prisoner desperately rifled through his belongings. The hook attached to the end of his compeller's left arm gleamed as the first golden rays of the morning sunlight slid over the horizon.

"Always running," Hook hissed, his lips pulling back in a primal leer.Before Rumplestiltskin could even think to react, the captain lunged forward, slamming the older man against the nearest wall.Hook pressed his right arm just below his prisoner's neck, pinning him in place.

Smirking slightly, his eyes black with fury, the captain trailed the point of his hook down Rumplestiltskin's neck, scratching but not fully breaking the skin.He paused at the collar of Rumplestiltskin's shirt, before jerking his arm so that he tore his prisoner's shirt down to the middle of his chest.

"Did you honestly think I would _forget_ to command you to stay in the brig?” He sneered, pressing the sharpened point of his hook down until a bead of blood welled beneath it. Rumplestiltskin clenched his jaw at the stab of pain, wincing as his compeller began to slowly drag the weapon down his chest.

"Did you think I would be so foolish?" 

Rumplestiltskin stared at him, a muscle jumping in his temple as the hook pressed deeper into his flesh, blood now flowing freely down his chest.He tried to lurch forward to relinquish the captain's hold on his shoulders, but Hook merely shoved him back against the wall, smirking.

"Are you a coward, Rumplestiltskin?" He asked snidely, tilting his head to the side as he withdrew his hook from Rumplestiltskin's flesh and glanced casually at the blood partially coating it.Rumplestiltskin ground his teeth, glaring at his compeller and fighting back the strong urge to spit in his face.

"When I ask a question, I expect you to _speak_ ," Hook commanded with a snarl, "You owe me that much." He pressed the point of his hook at the top of the cut he had made, trailing it down as he retraced the bleeding wound.

Rumplestiltskin inhaled sharply through his teeth, biting back an enraged shout as he felt the cold chains of magic constrict for the first time in days.Inhaling a steadying breath against the anger and revulsion roiling inside him, Rumplestiltskin spoke.

"Tell me," he began, his voice raspy from lack of use, "Have I offended you in some form or manner of which I am woefully unaware, Captain?" 

Hook's eyes narrowed at the sardonic question. "Greatly," he growled, digging his hook farther into the man's flesh.

Rumplestiltskin grunted slightly at the pain, and then, much to his tormentor's surprise, chuckled condescendingly. "My, what a temper you have. All this over a simple escape attempt—"

His words were cut off as Hook pulled him forward slightly in order to slam him once more against the wall, his hook sinking even deeper into Rumplestiltskin's chest. "Wrong!" He snarled, his black eyes practically ablaze with barely contained fury.

"To what degree is my offense to you?" Rumplestiltskin forced the words past his lips as the pain of the impact with the wall slightly ebbed.

"Punishable by death," Hook responded, harshly retracing the wound he had made once more.Rumplestiltskin could not stifle another grunt as he felt more of his blood slide down his chest.

Nearly half of the sun rested above the eastern horizon now, bathing the cabin in its golden light and glittering of the bloodstained hook.The captain continued carving the flesh of Rumplestiltskin's chest, watching attentively as his prisoner merely grit his teeth and occasionally winced at the pain.

"Well, well, quite the masochist, aren't we?" He taunted as a quick flick of his hook split another centimeter of skin.

"Coming from a sadist?" Rumplestiltskin spat back, trying to lurch away from the wall again and flinching as he only succeeded in further impaling himself on his compeller's hook.The captain merely leered in response.

"What are your intentions?" Rumplestitlskin snapped; regardless of how much pain the captain had caused him, the wound remained superficial, and could easily be mended.Hook's lips stretched into a smirk, though his eyes remained filled with black rage. He removed his hook from the groove on his prisoner's chest, smirking more widely at Rumplestiltskin's gasp of pain and pulling a white handkerchief from beneath his vest to casually clean some of the blood off of it.

"Intent is meaningless," the captain finally responded, quirking an eyebrow at Rumplestiltskin's resultant glare.

"Do you mean to kill me after you have me hunt down the boy?"

His compeller turned slightly to gaze out of the window, leaning the curve of his cleaned hook against his chin as though deep in thought.

"No. That would be redundant."

"What do you mean?" Rumplestiltskin asked, his brow furrowing as confusion now joined the frustration building within him.

Hook's smirk widened into a dark grin at his prisoner's question.He indolently stepped closer, pausing only when his face was mere inches from Rumplestiltskin's.Refusing to back down, Rumplestiltskin did not move, staring unblinkingly into the dark gaze of his compeller.

"You see, you are _already_ dead to me," Hook sneered, before more anger than Rumplestiltskin had ever seen him display suddenly filled his normally lifeless eyes.

"You were dead to me the day I fell through that vortex."


	17. Chapter 17

Shock silenced any words Rumplestiltskin might have said, stilled any movements he might have made.  He let his eyes trace the captain's features, his brown shoulder-length curls, his strong jaw, the lines of hardship creasing his forehead.

It couldn't be... Swallowing hard, Rumplestiltskin frantically sifted through his jumbled thoughts for the one name he had feared he would never again use in the presence of its owner.

"Bae?"

Although his voice came out no louder than a whisper, Hook flinched as though he had been struck.  His eyes flashed dangerously as he stepped backward, putting more distance between himself and his prisoner.

"Don't _dare_ call me that!" He snapped, and for a moment Rumplestiltskin was certain he saw a flicker of fear alongside the fury in his compeller's eyes.

Rumplestiltskin stepped closer, opening his mouth to speak, but he was suddenly cut off by the harsh notes of a rooster's crow echoing high above.

Hook's eyes glinted with malicious glee at the sound; a deep chuckle resounded in his chest.  Dread and unease settled like an anvil in Rumplestiltskin's stomach at the captain's sudden change in behavior.

"Perfect," Hook murmured covetously, grabbing his coat and turning on his heel to sprint out of the cabin.  Rumplestiltskin hesitated, before forcing his legs to follow the man who claimed to be his son.  Too many questions and fears and doubts clashed madly in his mind to remain in the cabin.

The sun was completely above the horizon, its harsh light momentarily blinding Rumplestitlskin as he clambered after his compeller, who now stood with his gaze fixed on some point in the sky.  Rumplestiltskin's own eyes followed the direction of Hook's gaze, alighting on what appeared to be the silhouette of a boy hovering behind the ships billowing gray sails.

"Peter Pan," Hook called out, his voice tinted with dark satisfaction; Rumplestiltskin's insides twisted with dread at the sound of the name of the child he was intended to kill.

"How fortunate that you should come to me today," Hook continued loudly. "You've just saved me a lot of trouble," he added, throwing a wicked smirk in Rumplestiltskin's direction.

"It's been too long since I last visited my favorite _codfish_ ," an exhilarated, youthful voice shouted from the flying shadow.  Hook's lips curled back in a snarl at the boy's taunting words and he turned to face his prisoner.  Rumplestiltskin took an involuntary step back at the bloodlust glinting in the captain's black eyes.

Hook pulled the left lapel of his jacket to the side, reaching a hand inside to grasp the dagger resting in the breast pocket Rumplestitlskin had not checked. Rumplestiltskin's eyes widened, incredulity and frustration whirling in their depths.

"Oh yes, you came very close to getting exactly what you wanted," the captain scoffed, leering at his prisoner's expression.  He returned his attention to the boy hovering high above, his fingers wrapped around the hilt of the dagger.

"Kill—" Hook started to command, but a sharp clang and the sound of rope scraping against the starboard gunwale cut him off.  He whirled around to face the source of the noise, his face twisting in rage as he realized the insolent boy had swooped down and severed the ties fastening the anchor to the Jolly Roger.   

Soaring up to the ship's crow's next, Peter Pan laughed loudly at the pirates scurrying about the deck to try to catch the end of the rope before it slipped into the ocean.  The rope uncoiled wildly as the anchor plunged deeper and deeper into the ocean, and suddenly Rumplestiltskin knew what was going to happen.

As the last thick length of the braided rope whipped across the deck, it wound itself about the right leg of the ship's captain.  With a loud crash, Hook was upended, his back slamming against the deck.   The sinking anchor yanked him toward the gunwale.  Arms flailing, the captain embedded his hook in the wood of the deck, trying to keep himself from falling overboard.  The attempt failed, and the rope dragged him over the ship's starboard gunwale and into the water with a great splash.

"Man overboard!" A burly pirate yelled as several more of Hook's men raced over to the ship's side to peer into the water.  Their eyes scanned the surface for any sign of their captain.  Some of them pulled flintlock pistols from beneath their vests, glaring against the sun as they aimed them at the boy flying overhead.

Rumplestiltskin threw off his jacket and kicked off his shoes, his pulse thrumming with adrenaline.  He ran over to the starboard gunwale, leaping to stand atop it.  Even if this man was not his son, he still had the dagger.

Fixing his gaze on the site where Hook went under, Rumplestiltskin dove.

The cold water engulfed him like a pit of razorblades, momentarily paralyzing his muscles as his eyes frantically searched for the captain. Regaining control of his limbs, Rumplestiltskin propelled himself deeper into the sea. He gazed into the murky depths that seemed to stretch for miles, their soft turquoise melting into a deep indigo.  A flash of silver suddenly caught his eye.

Swimming sluggishly up from the depths of the ocean was Hook, his eyes dazed from lack of oxygen.  The few tendrils of rope clinging to the man's hook indicated that he had managed to cut himself free.  As Rumplestiltskin watched, the man's movements slowed even further, a small cloud of blood seeping from a wound on his temple.

Rumplestiltskin swam over to him, reaching out a hand to clasp the front of his compeller's—his son's? —shirt.  A look of shock flashed across Hook's features as his prisoner yanked him closer, looping an arm around his chest and kicking for the surface.

Spots of white light flashed before Rumplestiltskin's eyes as he swam for the surface.  Hook kicked weakly, trying to help even as the last bubbles of air slipped past his lips.

When they finally broke the surface, a chorus of yells from the Jolly Roger's crew met their ears.  One of the pirates tossed a rope into the water for them to grab.  Rumplestiltskin sucked in huge gasps of air, wrapping a fist around the rope as Hook coughed and sputtered beside him.  As the pirates pulled them to the side of the ship, they dropped several more ropes into the water.  Rumplestiltskin tied one beneath his arms, grasping Hook's collar to hold him steady as the captain did the same.

The crew heaved them up and over the ship's gunwale.  They landed gracelessly on the deck, lying in place as they struggled to catch their breath.  Hook continued to cough, gagging as he expelled the saltwater he had swallowed and inhaled.  Rumplestiltskin pulled himself to a sitting position, leaning heavily against the mast of one of the ship's sail.  Wiping his mouth and breathing heavily, Hook lifted himself slightly off the deck, leaning on his elbow.  He looked over at Rumplestiltskin, surprise and confusion creasing his forehead.

They met each other's gaze, staring silently and ignoring the shouts and questions of the pirates surrounding them.

* * *

 

Peter stared down at the scene unfolding on the Jolly Roger's deck, his eyes wide with incredulity.  He had enacted the perfect plan to distract the pirates long enough to swoop down and rescue Belle's companion.  It was even better that the rope had managed to snag Hook and pull him overboard.  He had been certain his efforts would be successful.

But then the man dove in after Hook. Peter had not been able to stifle a shout of disbelief when the two broke the surface a couple minutes later, gasping and clutching onto each other.

Now, they sat on the deck as though they were a couple of old chums.  Peter's lips bent in a frown, his brow furrowing as he continued to peer from behind one of the ship's sails.  He watched Belle's friend for a moment longer. Maybe he had misunderstood; maybe he had rescued Hook so that he could finish him off himself.

The two continued to stare at each other, not moving except to occasionally cough.  Peter shook his head, not believing what he was witnessing.

The harsh bang of a shot pierced the air and Peter ducked.  A small hole appeared in the cloth of the sail precisely where his head had been.  With one last quick glance at the ship's deck, Peter leapt from his hiding place and soared in the direction of the island. 

Anger and disbelief roiled within the boy's chest. He dreaded the look Belle would wear when he revealed the terrible news.  As he neared the shore, his shadow gliding over the glistening blue water, he let out a frustrated yell.

Belle's friend was a pirate.

* * *

 

Belle leaned against the windowsill of the Drey's main cabin, her cobalt eyes anxiously watching the skies for any sign of Peter.  She worried her bottom lip between her teeth, her fingers fidgeting with one of her russet curls.  Even shouts and laughs of the Lost Boys playing tag below could not dilute the fear snaking through her veins like ice.

"You should sit down," a soft voice said from above her right shoulder. Belle jumped slightly, turning her head and taking in the appearance of the fairy who had accompanied her back to the Drey.

Aibreann wore a fitting, knee-length dress that glittered in the sunlight as though it were sewn from polished emeralds.  The bell sleeves hung flatteringly off of her pale shoulders like two tiny leaves. Long, caramel curls cascaded down her back, covering almost the entire length of her wings when she folded them down.  She was strikingly beautiful, her cheekbones defined and her eyes possessing a warmth that gave Belle a sense of comfort despite the harrowing thoughts whirling madly in her mind.

"You look close to fainting," Aibreann murmured, perching on Belle's outstretched hand and gazing concernedly up at the woman.

Belle shrugged one of her shoulders, her forehead creasing in worry as she turned her gaze once more out the window. 

"He _will_ come back," Aibreann assured her, smiling softly when Belle looked down at her.  The fairy crossed her legs, leaning back to better survey her new friend. The journey back to the Lost Boys' tree house had taken no more than an hour, and yet she felt as though she had known Belle for years.  They had spoken the entire way, swapping their favorite tales and laughing over the rambunctious Lost Boys' adventures.  Belle seemed to positively glow when she smiled, even as her eyes still held traces of apprehension. She was delightful company, and Aibreann could not help but feel drawn to her.

"Peter's confronted Hook more times than I can count," the fairy continued, her lips bending in a small frown not unlike that a sibling would wear when speaking about an unruly, but loved younger brother. "He does not always return unscathed," she shook her head slightly, "But he always returns."

Belle sighed lightly, but smiled appreciatively at the fairy sitting in her palm. She doubted anything Aibreann could say would quell the unease coiling like a venomous snake in her chest, but she was glad she did not have to wait alone. Her gaze slid back over to the open window, the tentative smile fading from her lips.

Suddenly, a sharp cry floated out of Belle's throat as she leaned farther out of the window, one hand raised to shield her eyes against the mid-morning sun.

There, flying just above the towering treetops in the distance, was the slim form of Peter.  Belle felt her heart begin to race as he neared, a smile slowly returning to her lips.

When the boy hovered several meters from the tree house cabin, Belle's smile vanished.

He was alone.

A wave of terror washed over Belle as her eyes took in the forlorn expression on the boy's face.  She swayed slightly, bracing her arms against the windowsill as her mind juggled thoughts of all the horrible ways their plan might have gone.

Peter flew up to the window, slowly climbing through it and standing before Belle.  Belle felt the color drain from her face as he said nothing, staring silently at her.

"Why—W-where—" Belle stuttered, unable to find the words to ask the thousands of questions hurtling themselves against the front of her mind.

"He's a traitor," Peter said solemnly, his lips set in a hard line.  Belle's brow crinkled in confusion; she shook her head, trying to register what the boy said.  Aibreann hovered in the air beside her, her brown eyes fixed on the boy standing before them.

"What do you mean?" Belle finally asked, her voice slightly breathy as she tried to calm her pounding heart.

"I cut the rope to the Jolly Roger's anchor to distract the pirates and save him. Hook got caught in the rope and fell overboard."

Aibreann gasped, her eyes widening.  Belle merely stared at him, her hands clasping and unclasping before her.

"Your _friend_ dove in after him," Peter explained, frustration and disbelief evident in his clipped tone.

"He _saved_ Hook?" Aibreann asked incredulously, her eyebrows raising in surprise as Peter nodded.  She turned her gaze to Belle, waiting for her to explain why in the world her imprisoned lover would rescue his captor.

"And then they sat there on the deck. He didn't even _try_ to escape," Peter said quietly, shaking his head.

"No, no, you must have misunderstood," Belle insisted, her voice raising slightly in desperation.

"I know what I saw, Belle," Peter responded adamantly, his eyes boring into hers, "Your friend is a pirate."

"He is not a pirate!" Belle exclaimed, frustration coloring her cheeks. "We need to go back," she added, her gaze darting between Aibreann and Peter. 

"I'm not going back. I'm not going to help a traitor," the boy stated firmly, folding his arms across his chest.

"Peter, please. It must have been a misunderstanding. We have to—"

"Why? He's not _good_ , Belle. No one who sides with Hook is. Don't you remember what he did to Scout, to the mermaids?" Peter cut her off, his voice raising as he pointed a finger at the carving of Scout on the wall.

"Of course I remember, Peter. But we can't just leave him as Hook's prisoner," Belle said beseechingly.

"He didn't look like a prisoner to me," Peter scoffed, crossing his arms once more.

"I have to go to him. I _love_ him," Belle responded desperately, her eyes begging him to understand.

Peter turned around, running a hand through his hair and rubbing the back of his neck.  He sighed heavily, looking down at his bare feet.

“I need him,” Belle murmured to the boy's back.

Peter lifted his head at her words, turning around to face her as a small smile stretched his lips. His eyes shone with naive optimism.

"You don't need him, Tinker Belle.  You can just stay here with us. _We_ would never betray you, and I could keep you safe from Hook and his pirates.” He reached out to grasp her hand, but Belle pulled it away, her throat constricting.

"Peter, _please_ ," Belle whispered, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes.

Peter watched her sadly, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, Belle. I won't help a pirate."

Silence passed between them for a long moment, before the boy turned around, climbing onto the windowsill and soaring into the air toward his own cabin.

Belle watched him fly away, sighing and shaking her head at the boys' stubbornness. Backing up against the nearest wall, she slid down to the floor. Her throat tightened further as she sank her hands in her hair.

_Why wouldn't he believe her?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, we hope you're enjoying "Hooked"! If you're reading this, we would love to hear from you! :) 
> 
> ~  
> Warrior717


	18. Chapter 18

As the boy flew off toward the island, the pirates firing their flintlock pistols in his wake, Rumplestiltskin and Hook continued to stare at each other.  When the crew finally calmed and silence fell over the deck, Hook averted his black gaze and leaned forward to haul himself to his feet.  Smee stumbled forward and placed an arm beneath one of Hook's, sycophantically trying to help the captain rise into a standing position.  Hook shrugged the pudgy man off, reaching a hand beneath his scarlet coat and breathing a sigh in relief when his fingers grazed the cold hilt of the dagger.  He returned his gaze once more to his prisoner. He took in the man's soaked clothes, his eyes lingering a moment longer on the bleeding wound marring his chest.

Rumplestiltskin watched as Hook's forehead furrowed slightly, his lips curving downward in a frown.  The captain's eyes suddenly snapped back to Rumplestiltskin's face, before darting to focus instead on the crowd of pirates surrounding them.  His movements were quick, but not quick enough for his prisoner to miss the tiniest flicker of something almost remorseful in his onyx eyes.

Rumplestiltskin placed a hand atop the gunwale, using its support to also rise to his feet.  His vision shifted slightly as the blood rushed to his head, thudding loudly in his ears.  The saltwater he had managed to swallow enhanced his thirst to a painful degree and he flinched as he swallowed.  Hook seemed to notice this, that foreign emotion sparking faintly once more in his gaze.  He turned to face Smee, his expression stern.

"Find the prisoner a change of clothes and something to drink," he ordered, his lips curling back in a primal snarl when the man did not move. " _Now_ ," he practically growled.

The short, pudgy man jumped at his captain's tone, clumsily turning on his heel and hurriedly wobbling toward the ladder leading below deck.  Hook glanced once more at the wound on Rumplestiltskin's chest, his lips pressed in a hard line.

"Smee!" He shouted suddenly, causing the pirate to nearly fall as he skidded to a halt and whirled around to face Hook.

"Find something to dress the man's wound," he added curtly, his eyes conspicuously avoiding his prisoner's and the other pirates' stunned expressions as he nonchalantly inspected his hook.  Smee gawked at him for a long moment, before stuttering a frantic "A-aye-aye, Cap'n" and bustling back toward the ladder.

Rumplestiltskin's eyes shone a mosaic of different emotions as they met Hook's, before the captain quickly directed his gaze towards the sea for a moment, and then back to his silver hook.  A wave of dizziness suddenly washed over Rumplestiltskin, and he clutched the polished wood of the gunwale as the world seemed to lurch before him.  His ears rang as spots of white light flashed before his eyes.  The space between each heartbeat seemed to grow longer and longer... 

Hook looked up from his silver appendage then, his gaze darkening with annoyance as he took in his crew's raised eyebrows and gaping mouths.

"Now that you have all been so thoroughly entertained," Hook sneered, his glare snaking over each of his crew members, "Clean up this mess."

A loud thud punctuated the air then as Rumplestiltskin fell upon the deck, and did not stir.  The captain whirled around, his eyes widening slightly as they took in the man's pale and unconscious form lying on his side.  He tentatively stepped closer,brow furrowing as he leaned down to press two fingers against the man's neck. A pulse, though faint, beat beneath his fingertips.

Hook removed his hand, releasing a deep breath he had not realized he was holding. He let his gaze travel over the man he had held captive on his ship, taking in the deep lines on his forehead and beside his eyes, the chapped skin of his lips from lack of water, the shallow way his bleeding chest rose and fell. He was weathered and wan, but seemed uninjured from the sudden fall.

Noticing the distinct silence of his crew as they continued to stare, Hook quickly sraightened, turning to face them with hard eyes.

"You," he barked, pointing his gleaming hook at a burly man with beady eyes and a brown beard, "Carry him to my cabin."

The pirates' eyebrows shot up in shock.  He stared at his captain for a moment, before releasing a booming laugh.

"Your cabin, Cap'n? Surely this scum—"

"I don't recall asking for your opinion," Hook snapped harshly, a muscle jumping in his temple when the pirate hesitated a moment longer before stepping over to Rumplestiltskin's unmoving form. He sighed in frustration as the pirate hauled the man into his arms and trudged toward his cabin.

The captain also never recalled having to repeat an order more than once before.

 

* * *

 

From behind her arms, Belle could see the green glow of Aibreann's light hovering before her. She did not lower her arms, her gaze remaining fixated on her lap.

"Belle?" Aibreann's soft voice prompted, floating closer.

"Why won't he believe me?" Belle asked, voicing her earlier thought.  Aibreann sighed lightly as she watched her troubled friend's hands fist in her hair.

"Distrusting anyone associated with Hook is all Peter knows to do," she explained quietly, "Their enmity stretches back centuries."

"I _know_ he is not staying aboard that ship by his own will," Belle insisted, her voice only just louder than a whisper. She lifted her head to peer at the green fairy, slowly extracting her hands from her hair.  Several curls unraveled themselves from her braids, tumbling down to frame her worried features.

"How can you be sure?" Aibreann asked gently, her gaze sympathetic but her tone harvesting a slight skepticism.

"Because..." Belle bit her lip, her eyes searching Aibreann's face.  She had been nothing but kind and understanding; throughout the time they had spent together Belle had not detected a single ounce of malice in the pixies words or actions.  With a deep breath, Belle nodded to herself, deciding that Aibreann was safe to trust with at least part of the truth of her love's situation.  With her true love's fate at stake, Aibreann was her only hope.

"There's a dagger," Belle murmured, looking about as though to ensure they were completely alone. "It has his name on it. And whoever possesses it, controls him."

Aibreann's brown eyes widened at the revelation.  She dazedly flew over to perch on Belle's bent knee, staring up at the woman.

"Your companion, he has _magic_?" She asked apprehensively, her brows knitting in consternation.

"Not much," Belle answered hurriedly, hoping she had not destroyed her chances at recruiting the kind fairy's help. "But, yes," she finished quietly, clasping her hands in her lap. "He says he needs it to find his son. That's why we came here. They were...separated, a long time ago, and we only learned recently that his son arrived in Neverland."

A frown bent Aibreann's lips at Belle's revelation; she sighed deeply, running a hand through her curls.  The thought of Hook with magic at his disposal was daunting to say the least, and the thought of a father never finding his son was even more distressing.

"I have to go to him," Belle insisted, pulling Aibreann from her dark reverie. "I have to save him, before Hook hurts him or..." Belle shuddered, staring down at her clasped hands, "Or compels him to do something _terrible_."

They both stared at each other for a long moment, brown eyes meeting blue, as though imagining all of the horrible crimes someone as ruthless and cruel as the _Jolly Roger_ 's captain could commit with a store of magic at his disposal.

"I can send Hook a message, ask him to meet with me," Belle declared suddenly, her eyes glinting with determination, "If it's a slave he wants—"

"You're not honestly thinking of _exchanging_ yourself for your friend?" Aibreann exclaimed, her face paling in shock as Belle merely averted her eyes. "Belle, you _can't_ —"

"I just need to talk to him," Belle interrupted quietly, silently begging her tiny friend to understand.  "Will you help me?"

Aibreann gazed at her, rendered momentarily speechless by the woman's dedication and love for Hook's mysterious prisoner.  After a moment, she nodded shakily.

"I don't know how much good can come of this, but yes, I will help you," the fairy relented, the corners of her mouth twitching in a small smile at the way Belle's face brightened.

"Oh, if I could hug you, I would," Belle breathed, so overwhelmed by relief that she nearly laughed.  "I think the boys have some parchment stored in the cabin above," Belle thought aloud, pulling herself to her feet and dusting off her deerskin dress.  She shuffled toward the vine staircase, casting a quick glance out of the window to ensure they had not been overheard.  As much as she had grown to care for Peter, she could not risk such information falling into his youthful hands.

Aibreann flew after her, the low hum of her transparent wings the only sound passing between them as they ascended the stairs to the boys' storage cabin. 

Clambering through the small hatch, Belle strode over to the short makeshift desk, kneeling before it and pulling a sheet of yellow parchment with a deep crimson border toward her.  A slightly tattered eagle's feather quill sat in a lone inkwell. Belle snatched it up, inhaling several steadying breaths to still her trembling hand.

Aibreann alighted on the desk's surface, watching closely as Belle's slanted script filled the page.

_Captain Hook -_

_When two people have something the other wants, a deal can always be struck._

_Meet me at the dock on the southeastern shore at dawn to discuss the fate of the man you currently hold prisoner._

_On the honor of your title I expect you will not inflict further harm on your captive in the meantime._

_No tricks._

_\- Belle_

Reading over the letter once more, Belle folded it into a small square and handed it to the slightly frowning fairy.  "Can you deliver it? _Safely_?" Belle asked, worry once more creasing her forehead.

"I've been to Hook's ship before," Aibreann explained, nodding. "I'll leave it in his chambers," she added, clutching the folded parchment to her chest.  She shot Belle an assuring smile, soaring over to the open window.

"Aibreann?"

The fairy pivoted in the air, her eyebrows raised in invitation for the woman to continue.

"Thank you," Belle breathed, her eyes staring into Aibreann's.

Aibreann smiled softly, bowing her head before flying into the midmorning sunlight, the fates of her new friend and Hook's prisoner tucked beneath her arm.

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

The burly pirate pushed aside the curtain surrounding his captain's cot and dropped the unconscious prisoner onto the mattress.  He faced Hook, his mouth opening to speak.

"Leave," Hook commanded flatly, cutting off whatever the man might have said and shrugged off his drenched coat.  He swapped his shirt and breeches for a dry set, listening as the pirate's lumbering steps exited the cabin.  Certain that he was now alone, Hook approached the side of his cot, eyes wondering over his captive's prone form before clearing his throat. He snatched up the washcloth from beside his porcelain washbasin, dipping it into the water and ringing out the excess droplets.

With the tip of his hook the captain pulled a nearby chair to sit beside his prisoner.  He sat himself upon it, leaning closer to peer at the wound he had inflicted on the man's chest.  It still bled freely, staining the torn white cloth of Rumplestiltskin’s shirt with scarlet streaks.

Hook laid the damp rag over the injury, pressing lightly in attempts to slow the bleeding.

When he lifted the cloth, blood once more seeped from the wound in tiny crimson rivulets between the torn layers of skin. He applied the washcloth again, pressing down with more strength.

Rumplestiltskin jolted upward at the sudden stinging pain in his chest, knocking the cloth to the floor.  Hook leapt from his seat, the fingers of his right hand twitching as he took a step backward from the cot.  Brow furrowing and eyes blinking rapidly, Rumplestiltskin blearily took in his surroundings. Instead of the grimy, damp prison floor he had expected to wake on, he felt the pallets’ soft give under his weight.

"What happened?" He mumbled, raising a hand to rub at his throbbing head, "How did I get..."

"After that rather ridiculous display of yours on deck, I had one of my men bring you in here." Hook leered **,** casually bending to pick up the cloth from the floor and tossing it to Rumplestiltskin, before turning and striding toward his map-strewn mahogany desk.

Rumplestiltskin pressed the cloth against the bleeding wound on his chest, turning when he heard the captain open one of the desk’s drawers, withdrawing from its depths several strips of fabric and a crystal decanter half-filled with brandy.

He brought the decanter to his lips, taking a large gulp, wincing slightly as the amber liquid burned a path down his throat. A moment later, Hook walked back over to the cot, handing the decanter to Rumplestiltskin.

Rumplestiltskin glanced at it warily, quirking an eyebrow as Hook nodded once for him to take it.  After another moment's hesitation, he wrapped his fingers around the glass container and brought it to his own lips. He swallowed a mouthful, the bitter taste of the alcohol making his tongue tingle. 

Hook pulled the decanter back to himself, smirking as he threw back another large gulp. His smirk widened as he withdrew the drink from his lips, suddenly removing Rumplestiltskin's hand with the cloth, overturning the decanter directly above the man's chest.

Rumplestiltskin hissed in pain as the alcohol seeped into his open wound, burning like liquid fire. Hook pulled a handkerchief from within his coat and tipped some more of the liquor onto it.  He tossed the soaked handkerchief to Rumplestiltskin, along with the lengths of cloth retrieved to substitute as bandages.  The captain's eyes met his prisoner's for a moment, his forehead creasing in something like confusion before he abruptly turned on his heel and walked toward the ornate armoire in the corner.

Rumplestiltskin picked up the brandy-soaked handkerchief and carefully dabbed at his raw wound, wincing as he cleared away most of the remaining blood.  He unraveled the strips of cloth, folding one into a thick wad to settle over the cut and winding the other about his chest to hold it in place.  He heard Hook rifling through the armoire, and a moment later a set of clothes landed with a soft thud before him on the cot.

"You've already soaked my cot. I'll not have you leaving a trail of water all about my cabin," the Captain sneered, his gaze not quite meeting Rumplestiltskin's questioning stare as he turned around again and sat behind his desk.

Tying the end of the bandage tight, Rumplestiltskin rose to his feet.  The blood still pounded heavily in his ears, but his vision no longer swam. After pulling shut the curtain surrounding the bed, he removed the drenched clothes he still wore and draped them over the chair Hook had occupied.  Relieved to finally be free of the soaked garments, he pulled on the dry clothes Hook had given him.

The off-white shirt was not unlike those he had worn when he was the infamous deal-making imp of the Enchanted Forest, its long sleeves billowing slightly.  Its collar parted in a v-shape, exposing the white bandages covering the mangled skin of his chest. The black breeches hung somewhat loosely off of his slim waist, but the belt Hook had provided—an ironic shade of deep gold—held them snugly in place.  Finishing the tie of his gold belt, Rumplestiltskin stepped out from behind the curtain. Apprehension hardened his gaze as he wondered what would transpire now between himself and this man who claimed to be his son.

"Well, well, you could pass for a member of my crew," Hook said snidely from his seat behind the desk, smirking as he took in his prisoner's appearance.  The dagger lay before him, glinting faintly in the morning sunlight.

Rumplestiltskin said nothing, staring at the captain as a thousand questions competed in his mind to be asked.  He took a tentative step toward the desk, his heart telling him to launch into an interrogation and his instincts telling him to snatch the dagger and flee.

"Sit," the captain murmured, and Rumplestiltskin nearly gasped in surprise when the chains of magic did not suddenly constrict about his willpower and force him into motion.  Hook was giving him a _choice_.

After a moment's hesitation, Rumplestiltskin approached the chair set before the desk, seating himself upon it.

"Bae—"

Hook slammed the tip of his silver appendage on the desk, the dark warning in his black eyes momentarily silencing his prisoner.

Frustration suddenly roiled within Rumplestiltskin's chest, faintly coloring his cheeks.

"How do I know you are not lying? That your remark back there was not just another tipoff from that 'little bluebird' you mentioned?"

Hook chuckled in response, bearing his teeth in a sarcastic grin.

"That was a _figure of speech_. I was being facetious when I said it," Hook said slowly, as though speaking to a young child.  "I see your rampant paranoia has not ebbed over the years," he added derisively.

Rumplestiltskin continued to glare at the ship's captain, his lips pressed in a hard line.  Hook stared back, lips forming a sly smirk.

"Prove it," Rumplestiltskin suddenly demanded, his eyes boring into his tormentor's. Hook laughed loudly, the jarring notes filling the cabin.

"What do you want, a tear-filled confession?" Hook chuckled mockingly as his prisoner's hands curled into fists, their knuckles shining white.

"All right, I'll humor you." Hook leaned back in his chair, placing his arms behind his head.

"Let's see... We lived in a shabby hut on the outskirts of the marshlands, you had a gimpy right leg that served as the butt of the village's jokes..." he listed off callously, staring up at the ceiling and smirking. 

"Anyone who had visited that village could have told you that," Rumplestiltskin interjected harshly.

"You took me to the market with you to sell wool, you taught me how to haggle because you were too afraid to do it yourself—"

"Stop."

"You tried to run with me when they lowered the drafting age, you sought the Dark One's powers when that plan failed miserably—"

"Nothing any other villager did not kn—"

"You killed our maid, you broke our deal, you let me fall through that vortex alone—"

"Hook!" Rumplestiltskin leapt from his seat, slamming his hands against the polished surface of the desk.  His mouth opened to release another shout when it was evident the pirate captain was not relenting.

"You used to sing a lullaby to help me sleep."

Rumplestiltskin froze, the harsh words he was going to say dying in his throat.

"About a shepherd boy and a wishing well." 

The sounds aboard the ship faded, draining away until all Rumplestiltskin heard was the beat of his own heart pounding in his ears.

“Is that proof enough for you?” Hook said snidely, his dull eyes glinting with an indiscernible light.

Rumplestiltskin blinked, vaguely aware that he had returned back to his seat. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

"It is you."

A scoff sounded in the back of Hook’s throat before he leaned forward, his gaze traveling back to the dagger which lay before him.  His fingers wrapped around the hilt, flipping the blade around till its tip dug lightly into the desk’s wooden surface.  Pressing the end of the hilt with a finger, he trapped the cursed knife between his finger and the polished mahogany. 

“Why didn’t you take this?” Hook questioned, eyes narrowing, watching his captive closely for his response.  “You could have let me die.”

Rumplestiltskin stared at the younger man in silence, and then sighed resignedly. “I suppose a part of me wanted to believe you were my son.”

Hook smiled incredulously, leaning back once again in his chair. "Even though I have tormented you?"

A pit began to grow in Rumplestitskin’s stomach at the reminder of his son’s cruel use of punishment after his escape attempt. It was only now his attention came back to the wound inflicted on his chest, now bandaged, and he rubbed his hand along it briefly. He swallowed, diverting his gaze to the floor. “Yes.”

Hook’s eyes remained cold, yet a hint of fascination glinted in their depths as he continued to stare at his captive.

“However,” Rumplestiltskin added quietly, looking up as he spoke. “I never imagined you would ever try to control me.”

Hook looked away briefly, clearing his throat. Rumplestiltskin thought he might have discerned a flash of remorse in the captain’s eyes, but knew he would never be certain of it.

“I’m not the same boy you once knew,” Hook said finally, his lifeless eyes betraying no emotion now. 

Rumplestiltskin sighed, passing a hand over his eyes before leaning back in his chair. A sense of dread filled him as he realized he was responsible for the callous man sitting before him. Every guarded expression, each cruel act born out of the sense of betrayal, the anger he instilled in his son in that moment he let him go alone, making Baelfire into the very monster the boy had tried to prevent _him_ from becoming all those years ago. Despite his son’s assertion that he had changed, Rumplestiltskin found himself searching this man before him for any trace of his beautiful boy. But all he could see was a cold, calculating, and selfish, sea-bearing pirate willing to take a life, even a child’s. But still. There was _that_ …

“The lullaby,” Rumplestiltskin recalled, his voice sounding slightly optimistic. “You remember it, after all this time.”

Hook pushed his chair back suddenly, catching Rumplestiltskin off guard, and stood up. “ _That_ particular subject will not be discussed any further.”

Rumplestiltskin breathed an exasperated sigh before he leapt from his own chair, straightening himself until he was eye level with his son.

“Baelfire—”

“Hook.” The captain said abruptly. “You will call me Hook. You gave up any right to claim me as your son long ago.”

Rumplestiltskin flinched. The Captain, appearing not to notice, walked over to the cabin window, opened it, and peered outside.

“What happened to you after you fell through the vortex?” Rumplestiltskin said, decidedly changing the subject.

The captain smirked, shaking his head.  “You know as well as I, magic always comes with a price.”

“And you?” Rumplestitskin pressed further. “What was your price?”

Hook’s demeanor changed then, but he continued to look out the window. “One you should have paid.”

Rumplestiltskin did not know which pained him more, the meaning of the words or the cold, monotonous way in which his son said them. When he did not respond, the captain turned from the window, shifting his gaze to the older man. 

“That vortex was meant for you, as well.” Hook elaborated, nonchalantly walking over to a shelf in the cabin and picking up a small golden clock. A jagged line ran along its face, evidently cracked. The clock itself seemed not to work, and judging by the captain’s actions, it appeared to Rumplestiltskin that his son preferred it that way.

“Bae— _Hook,”_ Rumplestilskin corrected after seeing the warning glint in the captain’s eyes, “I want you to know—”

“I’m not interested in anything you have to say to me,” Hook stated flatly.

Feeling his earlier frustration returning to him, Rumplestiltskin ran a hand through his hair, breathing in deeply. “What I did…” he began slowly, “I have regretted every day.”

Though never taking his eyes off the clock in his hand, Hook’s eyebrow rose slightly, skeptical, as he muttered something inaudibly.

“I have made great attempts since then to find a way to get back to you,” Rumplestiltskin continued, his eyes pleading with his son to listen to him. 

The captain seemed to ignore him, intent upon prying the cracked glass off the golden timepiece. His silver hook fiddled with one of the useless hands, spinning it repeatedly. Rumplestiltskin felt his patience draining from him, but continued regardless.

“I tried _everything_ I could possibly do. I sought out deals, gave up the life I knew. I resorted to creating a curse that—”

“Not another word."

“I’m not finished!” Rumplestiltskin shouted impetuously, his face reddening when Hook quirked an eyebrow in amusement. “This curse—”

“Makes no difference,” the captain interrupted tersely, turning to face his captive.

“—was designed to bring me to a land without magic so that I could find _you_ ,” Rumplestiltskin tried to continue.

“That will be enough.” Captain Hook’s dark expression mirrored the finality of his words.

Rumplestiltskin faltered a beat. If only he could convey to his son the deep regret over his own cowardice, his decades-long search for his precious boy, his need for redemption. “Why won’t you just listen to me, son?”

To Rumplestiltskin’s surprise Hook chuckled condescendingly, spiting his father’s plea.

“Why won’t I listen to _you_?” the captain taunted. His eyes hardened. “How dare you,” he hissed venomously, “You have no right—”

His words cut off abruptly, and Rumplestiltskin’s eyes turned sharply up to the captain’s face in astonishment as a solitary crimson tear formed, trailing its way down his son’s cheek. Hook raised his hand to scratch at the strange sensation, but froze when his fingers encountered the warm wet trail. He jerked his hand from his face, staring disbelievingly at the red staining his fingertips. After a long moment, his cheeks flushed scarlet, which Rumplestiltskin could only assume was from embarrassment. Hook looked up at him, and Rumplestiltskin stepped closer. His gaze softened, but his face was etched with worry.  

“Is that…Is that blood?” Rumplestiltskin asked, trepidation sweeping through him as he tried to identify what he had just seen.

Hook, saying nothing, slowly turned to the antique mirror adjacent to his desk to study his reflection. A moment later the earsplitting sound of glass shattering pierced the air, startling Rumplestiltskin. The myriad shards scattered in every direction, glittering in the sunlight like a thousand tears. The gold clock, which his son had been holding, lay among the debris. It's cracked face dangled by a thin strip of metal, and both hands were missing from the force of being thrown

The captain leaned over exasperated, his breathing ragged, and Rumplestiltskin felt something stir inside him. Instead of all the conflicting emotions he might have expected to feel in that moment, he felt only sympathy for the pirate.

He took several steps forward until he was within arm’s length of the captain, hesitating, and then reached out to clasp his son’s shoulder. As if sensing the movement, Hook tensed, and Rumplestiltskin paused, before dropping his hand back down to his side. He looked down regrettably, feeling his cheeks flush. He should have known his son would react this way. Should have known, because this is what he deserved. 

“Get off my ship.” 

Rumplestiltskin looked up, stunned, wondering if he had heard the captain correctly.

“What?” he murmured.

“I want you off my ship.” The captain repeated slowly, his back still turned to his father.

Rumplestiltskin waited to be lured by the icy compulsion of Hook’s command, but was surprised when the chains of magic did not take over as they had done so in the past. Once again, his son was ultimately giving him a _choice_ , but Rumplestiltskin couldn’t help but wonder the motive behind his son’s unusual and distorted act of chivalry.

“Do you hate me that much?” Rumplestiltskin found himself asking out loud. He regretted the question instantly though, as he realized he didn’t want to know the answer.

The captain, still hunched over, clenched his fist, albeit his hand slightly trembled. He breathed in deeply, letting out a worn sigh.

“Just…leave.”  Hook’s voice sounded uncharacteristically quiet. “Run, its’ what your good at.”

Rumplestiltskin felt the corners of his eyes begin to sting as he worked past the lump forming in his throat. His son, whom had searched for all this time stood no more than a few inches from him, yet Rumplestiltskin felt as though he was slipping through his fingers all over again. What was worse, his son was right about him. He was always running. He wasn’t a better man even after all these years. He wasn’t the father his son had always wished him to be. He still craved power, and he was _still_ a bloody coward.

Feeling that he had no other choice, Rumplestiltskin nodded sadly, and then, reluctantly turned to leave.

He paused when he reached the captain’s desk, unable to tear his eyes away from where the cursed dagger lay. Ironically, the same dagger he had sought out in hopes of saving his son from being taken from him, now remained the same despicable object that ultimately separated them.

“You might as well take it.” Although Hook spoke in a voice barely above a whisper, it startled Rumplestiltskin from his thoughts.  “I have no further use for it.”

Rumplestiltskin felt his heart race as he stared at the dagger, unnerved that Hook gave it up so freely, and yet still tempted to grab it and leave.  Did his own son hate him so much that he would allow him to escape with the dagger, consequently surrendering his plans to have him kill the young boy, Peter Pan?  Would he instead pursue his plans by some other means, Rumplestiltskin wasn’t sure. But one thing remained certain; his son no longer controlled him, and maybe that meant the captain still retained a even a small part of the young boy he used to know.   

With a newfound resolve, Rumplestiltskin turned, walking out of the cabin and leaving the dagger behind. He would not leave the ship as the captain directed. No, he would return to the brig, stay behind, in hopes that he might be able to reestablish the trust he once had with his son, that he might get through to the boy beneath the lavish coat and cold eyes. Rumplestiltskin steadfastly walked along the familiar path down to the grimy, aphotic brig, ignoring the crew's inquisitive stares along the way.

When the captain knew that he was alone, he straightened, and slowly walked over to the door, shutting it.  Then, as if in his own reverie, Hook took one step backwards, then another, until he was up against a wall. A gentle breeze flowed through the window, rattling the maps on his desk, when something caught his gaze. His eyes widened slightly, his brow etched in confusion as there on his desk still lay the dagger he had allowed his father to take, and was convinced he would. He sighed, resting his head against the wall before slowly sliding down its smooth surface. When he reached the floor, he closed his eyes, breathing in and out deeply.

A buzzing sound alerted him and he opened his eyes, turning just in time to see a flash of green, then a slender-looking object falling through the window. It landed with a light thud, rolling several inches across the floor before coming to a complete stop. It took Hook a moment to realize exactly what it was before he picked up the scroll, the parchment appearing oddly familiar, and unrolled it. As his eyes scanned over the contents of the letter, the captain gradually rose to his feet, his lips curving into a sinister smirk. 

"Smee!" the captain shouted suddenly, his eyes still fixed on the letter in his hand. Moments later, scurrying feet could be heard right outside the cabin door just before it flew open.

"Yes, Cap'n!" The pudgy, short pirate answered, but stopped short when he saw the broken mirror shards scattered across the floor. "Is everything alright, Cap'n?"

Hook raised his eyebrow in annoyance, rolling his eyes. "Clean up this mess!" He ordered tersely, before determinedly returning to the window to glance outside.

"Yes, Cap'n, right away, sir!" Smee immediately complied, rushing over to the broken mirror.

"And Smee!" The captain said, hardly turning his gaze.

"Yes, Cap'n?" The pirate asked, looking up as he busily picked up every last shard of glass.

"Prepare the crew," Hook stated matter-of-factly, "We will be changing course."

"May I ask to where we will be sailing, Cap'n?" Came the short pirate's squeaky voice.

The captain smirked. "To the southeastern shore," he replied, breathing in the salty sea air. "I have a very important meeting to attend."

 


	20. Chapter 20

The blaze of Neverland's afternoon sunwarmed the back of Rumplestiltskin's neck as he descended the rungs of the ladder to the brig. The thick odors of must and mildew filled his nostrils and settled heavily in his lungs, but they did not shake the calm determination with which he moved. His feet landed upon the wood floor of the bowels of the ship with a quiet thud.

Though sure he was making the right decision to stay aboard the _Jolly Roger_ , Rumplestiltskin’s stomach twisted in knots as he rethought his move to leave the dagger behind. Perhaps it was foolish of him, a serious lapse of judgment, but he had hoped by doing so he would make a point to his son that he wasn’t ready to give up on him. He had gone through great lengths just to find his son again, and he wasn’t about to leave Neverland without him. Hook had chosen to relinquish his control over the dagger, to let his prisoner go, and though nothing could prepare Rumplestiltskin for the cruel man his son had become, he had to trust that this meant there was at least a small part of the boy he raised still in there.

"To the southeastern shore!" A gruff voice shouted from the ship’s deck suddenly, bringing Rumplestiltksin back to the present. The order was echoed by several others as the sounds of running feet filled the air like thunder.

Brow furrowed, Rumplestitlskin returned his attention to his grim surroundings. A thin, gray mist floated lazily in the air, clinging to his flesh like a starved leech. Even the golden sunlight filtering through the grimy porthole seemed subdued, reflecting dully off of the dust motes in the air, as though wishing it did not have to enter the dreary place at all. But it was the barred door of the brig which swayed to the rocking of the ship that caught his attention. Its rusted hinges creaked and moaned despairingly, and Rumplestiltskin could not help but cringe as the sound eerily reminded him of something else…

He heard the harsh screech of metal against mental as his mind recalled the memory: his son, dragging his silver hook along the cursed dagger, the same knife he used to control him.

No, that can’t be right, Rumplestiltskin shook his head. His son would never control him. His mind felt crowded and hazy, thoughts blurring together disjointedly.  Were the effects of Neverland causing him to forget even more? Was it his son that tormented him? Was it his Baelfire who had vainly stolen the life of a child with no remorse? Was the monster who captained this ship truly his precious boy? Or was it the negative effects of Neverland that somehow misconstrued his memories, making him think his son could be capable of such heinous crimes?

A sharp stinging sensation on his chest as a bead of sweat slid under his bandage drew Rumplestiltskin from his thoughts. He looked down, his eyes tracing the areas where spots of blood seeped through the white cloth. This wound was not a mere figment of his imagination.

Rumplestiltskin felt every bone in his body freeze, every muscle paralyzed. A chill ran down his spine as he realized in horror that no, Neverland was not the enemy. His son was.

He heard more pirates scurrying across the deck, and he wondered if the captain had changed his mind and decided to not let him go after all. White-hot adrenaline surged in his veins, launching his heart into a near painful sprint. For one wild moment he was standing amidst of the carnage that was the Ogre War, once more faced with the fateful choice no man wanted to make: to fight or flee?

The Blue Fairy had prophesied that his son was in mortal peril. Had he not removed Hook from the danger when he pulled him from the water just this morning? Perhaps his actions had altered the time continuum, obliterating the possibility of the fairy's prophecy coming true.

The discordant clanks of the anchor's chain grating against the gunwale as it was raised echoed throughout the brig. " _Tick-tock, tick-tock,_ " the metal links seemed to taunt. Another bead of sweat slid below his bandage, the resulting sting registering in his mind like a battle cry, a warning of worse to come. Soon the ship would set sail and become an inescapable cage once more.

Rumplestiltskin's eyes darted to the porthole, taking in the sliver of green land leagues away. Belle was still out there. At least half a day had passed since he heard her sweet voice singing.  She could be hurt, lost... She might need him now, more than this wreck of a man who possesses his son's memories.

The door of the brig slammed against the bulkhead with a clang as the _Jolly Roger_ lurched eastward, the wind beginning to howl between its massive sails. Rumplestiltskin's flickering desire to flee now blazed like a brushfire as he whirled about to face the ladder.

But the worn wooden rungs were not there to greet him. They were concealed behind the scarlet coat and slender frame of the man Rumplestiltskin's heart hurt to call "son."

For a long moment Rumplestiltskin could only stare, his eyes darting from Hook's expressionless, weather-beaten face to the dagger clutched in his right hand. He had neither heard the man's entrance nor sensed his presence, and the eeriness of it all made him wonder anxiously if this was yet another hallucination.

Hook slowly raised the dagger, his cold eyes tracing the length of its’ curved blade. Rage and terror welled in Rumplestiltskin's chest; his muscles tensed and he was seconds from attacking the pirate when the latter spoke in a calm, casual voice.

“You forgot something," he said, holding out the cursed weapon.

Rumplestiltskin opened his mouth to speak, but no words escaped him. Paralyzing disbelief mingled with something acute like shame roiled in his stomach as he gaped at the composed features of the ship's captain.

Wordlessly, Rumplestiltskin reached for the source of his curse, his eyes still glued to the face of his once-compeller. When the tips of Rumplestiltskin's fingers grazed the black hilt, Hook's calm demeanor vanished. His eyes narrowed, his lips curled back in primal sneer, and before Rumplestiltskin's fingers could fully encircle the hilt, the pirate lashed out.

Hook's silver namesake snagged the collar of Rumplestiltskin's shirt; the captain yanked his prisoner toward himself, using the momentum to catch the latter's arm in the crook of his hook and twist it behind his back. Before the older man had a chance to pull free, Hook raised the crooked dagger to his throat.

"For once, you should have run," Hook's voice hissed in Rumplestiltskin's ear as his struggling abated. “Twice now you could have taken the dagger, but failed," he continued, his voice thick with sinister relish as he pressed the cursed knife closer.

“A mistake I won’t be making again," Rumplestiltskin grated through clenched teeth. With as much force as possible, he jabbed his right elbow into Hook's ribs.  The pirate grunted as the air left him, lowering the hand that held the dagger and allowing Rumplestiltskin to pull his captured arm free.

Heart pounding furiously, Rumplestiltskin pushed back with all of his strength until he had the ship's captain pinned between his back and the bulkhead.  Hook swung the fist holding the dagger toward Rumplestiltskin, but the older man had the upper hand. With a triumphant smirk he caught Hook's wrist, banging it against the adjacent iron bars until the dagger fell free into his waiting hand.

“The advantage of having two hands," Rumplestiltskin derided, chuckling when he saw the pirate's features twist in outrage.

Hook landed a solid punch to Rumplestiltskin's side, but the adrenaline coursing through Rumplestiltskin's veins spared him the full intensity of the pain.  Dagger blessedly in hand, Rumplestiltskin whirled around, facing his pinned tormentor and raising the weapon before the man could resist.

Panting but otherwise still, they both stared at the blade poised an inch above the pirate captain's chest.  The notes of a dark chuckle floated out of the younger man's throat.

“Ah, ah, ah…” he said tauntingly, wagging his finger at Rumplestiltskin, “I don’t think you’ll be using that.”

Rumplestiltskin glared, maintaining his resolve. “You sound awfully confident for someone at the end of a knife, dearie,” he derided, once more donning the thick armor of both the pawnbroker who terrorized Storybrooke and the imp who terrorized the Enchanted Forest.

Hook smirked, his black eyes glinting. "I have reason to be."

"Do you?" Rumplestiltskin asked snidely, moving the dagger closer so that the point rested on the fabric of the pirate's lavish coat.

"You see, _dearie_ ,” Hook leered, “Whether you like to admit it or not, you have always had a weakness.”

Nothing but the twitch of a muscle in Rumplestiltskin's clenched jaw indicated that he had heard the younger man.

“I could bleed every last one of those pathetic orphans," the captain taunted in an unnervingly blasé tone, "Murder your true love right before your eyes...”

Rumplestiltskin thrust his forearm against Hook's throat, momentarily cutting the man off as he pointedly readjusted the dagger.

“I can control you,” Hook continued, his voice raspy but no less haughty, “Bind you, force you to kill whomever I wish…” 

Rage swelled so potently inside Rumplestiltskin that he could scarcely distinguish Hook's features through the red haze clouding his vision. Hook pushed back against Rumplestiltskin's grip, leaning so that his mouth was inches from the older man's left ear. 

“And you would _still_ love me.”

In a voice no louder than a whisper, Hook had completely shattered Rumplestiltskin's defenses. All at once the man standing before the point of the wretched knife was no longer just an enemy waiting to be slain. He was Baelfire; almost completely unrecognizable in his cruelty and scorn, but Rumplestiltskin's son nonetheless.

Rumplestiltskin's arm slowly dropped from the pirate's throat, the hand clutching the dagger following suit.

Hook leaned his head back, his black eyes bearing into Rumplestiltskin's brown ones, triumph twisting his lips into a smirk. "And that is why you'll never stop me,” he finished spitefully.

Too many emotions to name warred within Rumplestiltskin at this ghost of his son's words. He stared trance-like at the young man standing before him, barely registering the movement when Hook easily removed the dagger from his grip.

Only when the tip of the blade was now pointed at his own chest, shining harshly in the sunlight, did Rumplestiltskin regain his awareness.

“This isn’t you.” Rumplestiltksin said quietly, numbly, and though the words were his own, he found it hard to believe them.

Hook laid the dagger against Rumplestiltskin’s skin, right below the bandage, pressing just enough to draw a trickle of blood. His smirk vanished when Rumplestiltskin did not flinch or gasp in pain.

“You made me into this,” Hook snarled, his usually lifeless eyes momentarily filled with burning hate. In the next moment, the dark irises once more resembled a corpse's.

Shuffling back a few steps, Hook pointed the knife he held towards the iron door of the brig. “Get inside.”

When the magic possessed his willpower again, forcing his body into motion, Rumplestiltskin felt he might choke on the wave of sheer revulsion that welled within him. The invisible chains felt heavier, colder, now more than they ever had. 

As his feet obediently stepped into the prison, Rumplestiltskin heard his own dejected voice ask, "You were never going to let me leave this ship, were you?"  The heavy door clanged shut behind him.

"I was," Hook responded after a moment, his gaze fixated on the green island visible through the grimy porthole. "Until I received some rather pleasing news," he added with a sinister grin. His only hand snaked beneath his crimson coat, withdrawing a scroll of fine parchment.

"A pixie delivered this to my cabin," he explained, using the tip of his namesake to unroll it. "Strange, I thought I'd killed the lot of them..." A dark smirk twisted his lips and it was not far-fetched for Rumplestiltskin to guess that Hook was reveling in the memory.

"Anyway, I've been called to a rather important meeting," Hook said nonchalantly, his eyes lazily reading over the letter once more.

"Such a lovely name," Hook leered when he reached the end, lifting his gaze to meet his prisoner's, "'Belle.'"

No amount of self-restraint could have prevented Rumplestiltskin from launching himself at the brig's door, an arm shooting forward in attempts to snatch away the letter.

"Ah, ah. It's not polite to read other people's post," the captain sneered. "She wants me to meet her at dawn, to discuss your fate."

"No!" Rumplestiltskin shouted, his fists gripping the iron bars until their knuckles shone white. His chest heaved and hurt as though Hook had plunged his namesake into it. "Leave her alone. She has nothing you want," he snarled.

"Oh, on the contrary, she has _exactly_ what I want," the pirate said covetously, gently grazing the letter with his hook. "To whom do you think she sang that lullaby? How do you imagine she obtained a stretch of parchment that was stolen from my ship by the Lost Boys? Your darling Belle knows where Pan and his league of brats are hiding."

"Touch a hair on her head, and I swear—!"

"You'll what? _Glare_ at me? You are powerless, Rumplestiltskin.” Hook interrupted with a derisive laugh. He looked down at his silver appendage, running a bejeweled finger along its length.

"Tomorrow I meet your _true love_ ," the pirate declared mockingly. "And I have no doubt in my mind she'll give me all the answers I need," he added darkly as he inspected his hook in the light filtering through the glass pane of the porthole.

A thousand images of Belle tortured and torn by Hook's namesake bombarded Rumplestiltskin's mind at the gesture, each more horrifying and gruesome than the last.

“Please, son. Don’t do this,” Rumplestiltskin begged, his voice hoarse with emotion.

Hook's steps halted. He turned on his heel, his brow creased with something like concern.

But it was only a facade, and a moment later his teeth were bared in a grin that sent fear trickling like ice water down Rumplestiltskin's spine.

“You will stay here.” Hook commanded, his gaze fixed unblinkingly on Rumplestiltskin. “Until I say otherwise.” He turned about once more, ascending the steps of the ladder with catlike ease.

" _No_! Please!" Rumplestiltskin roared, futilely yanking on the iron bars of his prison even as he felt the command sink into his bones.  " _Bae_!"

Silence, but for the sounds of wind in the sails and waves lapping at the ship, was Rumplestiltskin's only answer.

“No...” Rumplestiltskin gasped, his chest tight as though bound with steel.  His head fell against the bars, a solitary tear sliding down his cheek. “Oh, _Belle_...”

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

Even the sweet, raucous laughter of the Lost Boys could not inspire a smile on Belle's full lips as she sat on the windowsill, her knees tucked to her chest and her turquoise eyes anxiously scanning the horizon.She seemed to be continuously battling a lump in her throat as the blazing sun rose higher and higher, and the sky remained empty of Aibreann's little green aura.

With a shaky sigh she fixed her gaze on the children playing in the clearing below.The boys were kicking a ball of knotted cloth and palm fronds between them, their smiling mouths and grubby fingers still sticky with the fruit they had eaten for lunch.One of the fruits they had picked rested in Belle's palms now; it looked much like an onion, but with soft, vibrant orange flesh.Although its fragrance was sweet and inviting, Belle could not bring herself to eat it, instead absent-mindedly peeling back its plentiful layers as she anxiously searched the treetops once more.

She only just managed contain her cry of relief as a tiny emerald orb soared in the direction of the Drey.After looking about the cabin to ensure she was alone, Belle waved to Aibreann, beckoning for the fairy to fly to the window in which she sat.

Belle's lips twitched into a small smile as her friend alighted on her right knee, her green dressed glittering brilliantly in the afternoon sun.

"I'm so glad you're all right," Belle breathed, the sheer relief of seeing Aibreann unharmed and safely in the Drey almost making her giddy. 

Aibreann returned her smile briefly, before reporting solemnly, "Hook has received your letter. His ship sets sail for the southeastern shore now."

Belle nodded, glancing at the deep blue water she could just make out along the horizon."Thank you," she whispered fervently, her eyes meeting the fairy's.Aibreann stared up at her, a ghost of a smile on her lips, but her brow creased with worry.She moved to sit down on Belle's knee.

"I helped reunite a father and son once, before coming here," Aibreann explained quietly after a moment. Her lips curled into a small smile at the question written in her friend's features.

"It was a long time ago, long before you were born," the fairy answered softly. "A boy, a young spinner's apprentice, was lost and alone in the woods." Her gaze momentarily clouded over with the memory as she folded her legs beneath her. "It would be wrong not to help when presented with the chance to do so again."

The pixie's gaze flickered down to where the Lost Boys still played, and Belle guessed that she, too, was wondering if one of the children might be her true love's long-lost son.

"Are you certain you want to go through with this?" Aibreann suddenly asked, one of her tiny hands clutching the fabric of Belle's dress.

"It's the only way," Belle murmured, her expression calmly determined as she held out a finger for her magical friend to hold. "I must find out what Hook wants, what his plans might be. He wouldn't have agreed to meet me if there was not something he was willing to receive in exchange," she said quietly, hoping the sliver of doubt she felt in her chest did not show in her voice or features.

The carving of Scout and the shrine the other boys had made of his bed suddenly appeared in her thoughts, and in that moment her resolve faltered and she wondered morbidly if tomorrow's sunrise would be her last. 

Aibreann squeezed Belle's fingertip before looking once more out the window, the corners of her mouth slightly turned down and her brow furrowed in thought.Belle watched as the emerald fairy slowly nodded to herself and rose to her feet.

Belle opened her mouth to ask what the fairy was thinking, but the words remained unspoken as the Lost Boys suddenly burst into the cabin, their faces flushed with laughter and exercise.They playfully pushed and pulled at each other as they all fought at the same time to clear the entryway. Peter was not among them, and Belle had a strong feeling it was because he was avoiding her. When she returned her gaze to her knee, Aibreann had already departed.A pang of worry furrowed Belle's brow for a moment before Slightly's panting voice drew her attention.

"Whatcha staring at, Tinker Belle?" The plump boy asked, running a hand across his sweaty forehead and plopping heavily onto a mat by the hearth.The other boys finally surpassed the doorway, giggling as they stumbled over one another.

"Just thinking," Belle answered, smiling slightly at his use of her new moniker, which had seemed to become quite popular amongst the boys. "I'm surprised you are back inside so soon," she added, unfolding her legs to turn and face them all.

"We need to rest; Neverland's awfully hot today," Curly explained, picking at the sunburn that was peeling on his shoulder. The boys shuffled about, covering the floor with mats and tattered blankets before stretching out on the makeshift nest.A gentle rustling sound at the window alerted Belle to Peter's presence. He sat with his legs and arms folded tightly, and although he did not greet her, Belle felt a slight relief at the knowledge that he was not too upset to avoid her completely.Perhaps she might be able to reach him yet. 

Belle's hopeful thoughts were briefly interrupted by Tootles' tiny voice tumbling forth from his smiling mouth.

"Could you tell us a story, Mothe — " Tootles' face went red as he realized what he had nearly called her. "Um...I mean..." His voice trailed off as he twisted his hands in his lap. Belle could not speak through her surprise; she gazed down at the smallest of the group, affection and sadness warring within her.

"Could — could we call you 'Mother'?" Pox asked timidly, his eyes hesitantly meeting Belle's. "Just for pretend?"

They all gazed up at her, and Belle felt her heart ache at the hope and timidity in their expressions. 

"A-alright," Belle forced past the lump in her throat, and the boys positively glowed with their joy. “Just for pretend.”Even Peter seemed to join them, his lips twitching into a smile. A shadow passed over his face when his eyes met Belle's, though, and he returned his gaze to his knees.Belle did not have to guess to know that it was because he knew she could not stay long enough to be more than a "pretend" mother to them.

"Could you tell us a story, Mother?" Tootles asked, a broad smile on his cherubic face. "Please?"

"Oh, please do!" Nibs and Curly cried at the same time, before grinning toothily at each other.

The quaint cabin was immediately filled with their imploring voices so that Belle nearly had to yell to tell them, "All right, all right! Yes, I will tell you a story!"

She smiled affectionately at them all as they cheered and hurried to settle comfortably on the floor at her feet.Tootles sat the closest, his face cupped in his chubby hands and his green eyes staring up at her in rapt attention. 

"Tell one about dragons," Curly insisted, his ginger hair falling into his eyes as he hugged his knees.

"No, one about a king," Pox demanded excitedly, his long, lanky legs stretched out in front of him.

"We always tell stories about dragons and kings!" Nibs complained, his bottom lip sticking out in a pout.

"I think I know just the one," Belle quickly assured them before an argument could break out.

"I've known it since I was a girl..." The memory of a soothing voice echoed in Belle's mind, and she could almost feel the brush of cool fingertips against her brow. But who owned the voice she heard now in her thoughts? Belle's eyelids slid shut. She could almost feel a fine goose-feather pillow beneath her head as she recalled the voice's tinkling laughter.

The corners of her eyes prickled slightly as she tried to remember someone she was certain she should have never forgotten. One of the boys cleared his throat, pulling Belle from her nostalgic reverie. The Lost Boys were watching her, their eyes and smiles bright with anticipation.Only Peter seemed to detect that something was amiss, but he averted his concerned gaze when Belle looked his way.

"A long time ago," Belle began softly, the corners of her mouth twitching as the Lost Boys scooted even closer, "when the world was new and no human yet walked the earth, there was a beautiful oasis that was home to every kind of animal you can imagine. Eagles, wolves, elephants..."

"Dragons?" Curly asked excitedly.

"Shh!" The other boys scolded while Belle hid a grin behind her hand.

"For a while only peace and harmony existed between the animals.The world was new and they were new, so they reveled in the excitement of it all. Sunlight never waned and the days were filled with endless joy...But it did not last."

Belle paused dramatically, remembering how the woman who had told her the story had done the same thing.

"One day, while the animals were lounging along a riverbank, the Eagle declared to the dozing Cheetah by his side," Belle drew in a deep breath, thrusting her chin haughtily into the air and spreading her arms like wings, "'I am the greatest animal in the kingdom. I can soar above the highest clouds, while you only tread on the ground.' That caught the Cheetah's attention."

Belle hunched her shoulders, narrowing her eyes so she looked ready to pounce while the boys laughed.

"'You are wrong, Eagle,' the Cheetah growled. ' _I_ am the greatest animal in the kingdom. My legs run faster than the wind; you hardly have legs at all!' And so the quarrelling began. Each animal claimed to be the best in the world: the Giraffe because she could reach the highest leaves on the tallest trees," Belle stretched her neck as far as she could, smiling as Nibs and Tootles copied her. 

"The Alligator because his bite was the strongest," she added, raising her arms before her like a long set of jaws. "And so on, each one looking at the other and only seeing what they could not do. Only the tiny Hummingbird tried to stop the fighting. 'The world would miss any one of you should you leave it,' he told them."

Belle looked down at her audience, inwardly reveling in their disbelieving looks.

"But the other animals would not listen," she continued. "They mocked and teased him. 'What do you know, tiny Hummingbird? Your beak is the smallest and you have no claws. We have only ever seen you drink nectar from the most delicate flowers.' And they began to fight amongst themselves again."

"The fighting grew worse and worse, until the entire heavens echoed with the angry din. One day the creator of the earth could not stand it anymore, and with a deep sigh threw a great, big blanket over the entire world, encasing the animals in complete darkness!"

The youngest of the Lost Boys gasped while the older ones' eyes widened. Even Peter was entirely focused on the storyteller, who had to once more fight to keep herself from smiling.

"At first, the animals panicked. They cried and yelped in fear as they met darkness for the first time. But their fear soon dissolved into rivalry once more as they fought over who would be able to remove the blanket and return light to the world."

Once more Belle drew in a deep breath and raised her arms at her sides. "'I shall remove the blanket,' the Eagle declared, 'My wings can take me higher than any of you, and my talons are strong. I will prove to you that I am the greatest animal in the world.' Without another word, he soared into the sky and clutched the blanket with his talons."

"The Eagle will surely do it," Pox claimed confidently, crossing his ankles.

Belle curled her fingers so that they resembled claws and pantomimed grabbing the air above her.

"He pulled. And pulled. And pulled _again_ , but the blanket would not move! Tired and embarrassed, he returned to the earth." She gave Pox a playful grin as he "humphed" in disappointment.

"The Cheetah decided to try next. 'I run the fastest; I will run up the side of the mountain and leap onto the blanket. You will see that I am the greatest animal in the world.' He sprinted as fast as he could, running up the side of the mountain and leaping high into the air."

"The Cheetah will get the blanket off, I know it," Nibs whispered loudly, his wide eyes trained intently on Belle.

"But the Cheetah could not leap high enough," Belle continued, "and he fell back to the earth tired and embarrassed. And so all the bickering animals tried in turn, each one unable to remove the blanket of darkness. Not one of them listened when the tiny voice of the Hummingbird insisted, 'I have an idea to bring the light back!' They saw how small he was, how he flitted from flower to flower. Why should they believe in him?"

The boys stared up at Belle, their brows creased in contemplation as they considered her question.

"So, the Hummingbird decided to act on his own. While the others resumed their fighting, he flapped his little wings as hard as he could, propelling himself toward the blanket. Faster and faster he soared, until finally his beak punctured the blanket with a soft 'pop!'

"He pulled away, and a beam of bright line shined through the little hole all the way down to the earth below. Silence fell over the fighting animals." 

"The Hummingbird returned to the earth, before turning around and propelling himself again toward the blanket. Another 'pop!' sounded and another beam of light streamed through the hole. Realizing what the tiny bird was doing, the other animals began to cheer him on! Over and over he flew up to the blanket, piercing the fabric with his point beak until hundreds and hundreds of holes peppered the dark sky."

Peter and the Lost Boys gaped at their storyteller in wonder, their young minds no doubt painting the glorious picture the story conjured for them.

"At last, when the world below was dimly lit, the exhausted Hummingbird returned to the earth, his breast heaving with each breath." Belle slowly sank down to the floor, so that she was eye-level with her audience.

"'You saw my beak only drink nectar from delicate flowers,'" she said in a soft voice, "'You did not see that it could pierce the darkness and bring light.''' 

"'We were wrong, dear Hummingbird,' the animals said apologetically. 'We should have listened. You are not what we thought at all." Belle looked up at Peter, her turquoise eyes pleading for him to understand, to reassess his judgment of her imprisoned true love.

The teenage boy's cheeks flushed slightly as he realized the lesson was actually directed toward him. He rose to his feet, his lips pressed in a hard line.

"It's not the same, Belle," Peter sighed exasperatedly, and his disuse of her nickname stung. The Lost Boys turned to look at him, some with their heads titled to the side. "Hummingbirds don't kill. _Pirates_ do." 

"Pirates?" Pox asked confusedly, drawing Belle's attention. She did not answer, returning her gaze to the windowsill. Peter stared at her for a moment, and Belle flinched at the mistrust and frustration she saw in his eyes.

He shook his head disbelievingly, before leaping into the air and vanishing amongst the branches. Belle turned to face the cabin entryway, wanting to follow him, but Tootles' small voice paused her movements.

"Won't you finish the story, Mother?" His green eyes stared imploringly up at her, as did the eyes of all the other Lost Boys. Even Pox had seemed to brush off Peter's brief interruption. 

"Yes, dear, of course," Belle murmured, reaching to smooth down his sandy curls.

"'We know now that there is more to every one of us than meets the eye,' the animals said. And the creator of the earth, happy that the animals learned their lesson, finally lifted the heavy blanket. The animals cheered with joy as the full glory of the sun shone down on them." Each one of the boys' faces lit up at the mention of a happy ending.

"But the creator could not risk the animals forgetting all they had learned and repeating the same mistakes. So, he decided that for half of each day he would cover the world with the blanket, and the only light the animals would enjoy would be that which streamed through the tiny holes the Hummingbird had made."

Belle leaned back on her heels, placing her folded hands in her lap.The Lost Boys sat very still, each one seeming to mull the story over in their minds.Nibs looked over at the carvings on the cabin wall, his eyes falling on one depicting Neverland's night sky.

"I still think a dragon could have done better," Curly muttered, and Belle could not contain her laughter, smiling fondly at him.

"I want to be able to run like the Cheetah. Then I would beat you all at racing!" Nibs said excitedly, chewing on his thumbnail and pulling himself to his feet.

"Even if you were a Cheetah, you would never beat _me_ at racing," Slightly said haughtily, swatting playfully at Nibs' head.

"Hah! You're the slowest of us all," retorted Pox. 

"Wanna bet?"

In the next moment Pox and Slightly were sprinting toward the entryway, their shoeless feet smacking the wooden floor. The other boys hurried after them, laughing when they momentarily found themselves stuck in the doorway.

"Thanks for the story, Tink — I mean, Mother!" Curly shouted behind him. The others quickly echoed his gratitude, with Tootles turning around and running back to squeeze Belle's legs in a quick, tight hug, before once more sprinting out of the tree house.Belle stood in the center of the quaint cabin, shaking her head and chuckling at the boisterous children she was growing to care for like her own.

As the sounds of the Lost Boys' laughter grew farther and farther away, Belle found her thoughts returning back to the less pleasant ones of tomorrow's meeting and Peter's look of betrayal before he leapt out of the window.

Worry chewed uncomfortably at her stomach as she busied herself with tending to the cabin, picking up the mats and dusting every surface.The action stirred a series of half-memories: shelves piled with strange treasures, the clatter of breaking china, curtains tearing, a voice as smooth and warming as malted mead...

The rest of the day continued as such, with Belle tidying the Drey and wondering at the strange, yet achingly familiar images it conjured.The boys ran wild outside, their gleeful shouts and laughter occasionally pulling Belle from her reverie long enough to smile fondly at them through the window.

Night fell quickly, its darkness and cool breeze ushering the sleepy children to their cozy platform beds.The air around the tree house seemed unnaturally still and quiet, even as the crickets began to chirp and mysterious land to tune its nighttime orchestra.It was then that Belle noticed the distinct absence of the lilting notes of Peter's flute. 

Belle found herself gravitating toward Peter's cabin, the memory of his harsh words and hurt expression at the front of her mind. The need to apologize, to have him understand, temporarily eclipsed all other worries and plans whirring behind her blue eyes.

"Peter," Belle called lightly from her perch at the base of the ladder, "May I come up?"

"No need," a voice suddenly sounded behind her. Belle released a rather undignified squeak as she jumped and whirled about. Peter hovered there, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly upward at her surprise.

Belle returned his grin with a hesitant one of her own, relieved that he did not seem quite as cross as he had earlier.

"I'm sorry for upsetting you, Peter," Belle said softly after a moment, "I only wanted you to understand."

"I still don't," the boy responded, shaking his head. "Why do you want to help him, Tink?"

Belle smiled tenderly at the return of her nickname, before thinking on his question. She looked away for a moment, staring into the distance. The answer was both wonderfully simple and impossibly complex at the same time.

"I love him," she replied, meeting his eyes again. Peter turned around, agitatedly running a hand through his hair.

"But, why?" Peter demanded, facing her again, and Belle knew he was recalling what he had seen that morning: a man foreign to this land saving the boy's worst enemy, the source of his deepest pain.

"Because he trusts me enough to let me love him," she answered gently. "He's not a bad man, Peter. I wish you could believe that."

"I _want_ to," he responded imploringly, and Belle could see that he spoke truthfully. "But I saw him this morning; he's a p — " 

" _Parent_ looking for his child," Belle interrupted firmly. Peter looked away, and Belle added in a gentler tone, "As much as you might pretend otherwise, I know that means something to you."

Peter's gaze darted to hers again, his eyes sharp and his mouth opening to retort. "I'm not — " 

The sudden low notes of the wind breathing through the trees silenced whatever he aimed to say. The swaying cattails plucked gently at the low-hanging vines like a harp. A voice, smooth and ethereal as the rays of Neverland's two moons, seemed to sound forth from the earth itself.

_ May there always be angels to watch over you,  
To guide you each step of the way... _

"Do you hear that?" Belle asked, her voice breathy as she recognized the soothing lyrics sung by Neverland's voice.

"It's your lullaby," Peter murmured, his eyes wide with wonder as they seemed to search the very air itself for the notes of the melody.

_ To guard you and keep you safe from all harm.  
Loo-li, loo-li, lai-lay... _

"I wish you could stay," Peter whispered as the music quieted to a gentle hum.Belle felt her throat constrict as she took in the way his shoulders sagged and his eyes stared at his feet. He looked up at her hesitantly, the sadness etched in his features piercing Belle like a knife.

"Peter..." Her chest felt crushed by the conflicting emotions his whispered admission stirred. Words evaded her and she shook her head slightly as her eyes filled with tears.They watched each other silently for a long moment, before Peter turned and walked slowly to the end of the branch. His fingers absent-mindedly fiddled with his silver bracelet as he turned to look at her for a brief moment. With a sigh he soared into the air, the leaves of his tunic rustling as he headed for his cabin.

Smothering the sob that threatened to escape her tightly pressed lips, Belle slowly descended the spiraling stairs. A single hot tear slid halfway down her cheek before she abruptly wiped it away. Her meeting with the devil of Neverland was mere hours away, and she doubted he would be sympathetic towards a broken heart.

Belle decided to sleep outside tonight, sheltered at the base of the large oak where she would not have to fret over waking someone when she rose so early. She lied down on her side, curling inward like a babe as she so often had in the asylum.Fear that Hook would not meet her at dawn battled with fear that he would only too gladly meet her, and Peter's whispered confession still echoed in her thoughts.

The cool breeze blowing lazily over the land suddenly grew warmer and heavier, like a gentle, comforting embrace.It soothed Belle, and as the soft notes of the whispering willows wrapped around her, she felt her thoughts drift toward the blissful oblivion of slumber. As reality slowly disappeared around her, she heard the soaring notes of Peter's flute join the nighttime symphony.They danced lightly in the night air, and with a twinge of sorrow and a rush of affection, she realized he was playing her lullaby. 

Belle's eyelids slid closed and she finally slept, completely unaware of the covert meeting taking place high in the branches above. 

Three tiny fairies stood in a circle with their heads bent close. Their glowing auras—the green of Aibreann's, the orange of Buidhe's, and the violet of Flannach's — were hidden by the long, swaying vines of the willow on whose branch they huddled.A fourth fairy, with a deep red aura and flaming red hair to match, floated somewhat gracelessly toward them. She alighted on the branch with a soft thud, her wings fluttering lightly in the breeze. On the right one was a jagged, opaque scar that stretched from the top of the wing to a spot just before the bottom. 

"Ruadh," Aibreann greeted quietly as the crimson fairy stepped nearer, "I'm glad you came."

Ruadh nodded silently, coming to stand beside the emerald pixie.

"What do you need to tell us, sister?" Buidhe asked Aibreann, an eyebrow quirked in amusement at this late meeting.

The green fairy let her gaze travel across each member of her audience. Taking a steadying breath, she revealed her news.

"Tomorrow at dawn, Belle is meeting with Captain Hook."

Had the subject not been such a grave one, their reactions might have been comical.Flannach gasped sharply, her hands flying to her mouth. Ruadh's eyes widened to the size of acorns.Buidhe simply shouted: 

"Is the girl mad?!"

Aibreann ignored her outburst, continuing on in a calmly persistent manner. "I am going to follow her, to protect her. I have called you here to ask you to come with me."

The three of them gaped at her for a long moment, and again it was Buidhe who spoke first. 

"Have you forgotten what happened the last time we tried to ambush Hook?" She asked heatedly, indignant in the face of her fear. "Three of us _slaughtered_ — " 

"Of course I have not forgotten," Aibreann snapped.Her gaze darted over to Ruadh, whose arms were now wrapped tightly around her middle.

Aibreann inhaled deeply and sighed, closing her eyes.After a moment she opened them again, meeting Buidhe's tear-filled ones.She reached out a hand to grasp one of Buidhe's. "How could I forget?" She asked quietly.

"This isn't really an ambush, though, right?" Flannach's voice shook slightly as she stared toward the southeast. "We're following to protect Belle, not to attack H-Hook?"

"Right. We make no move unless her life is threatened.They won't even know we are there," Aibreann assured her. 

Flannach stared at her for a long moment, swallowing thickly."Then I will go with you," she stated calmly. 

"Flannach, you know how he is!" Buidhe gasped, her orange aura fading slightly as her face paled.

Flannach turned to Buidhe, clutching her other hand in both of her own.

"Buidhe, that is exactly why we must follow her.You know as well as I what Hook has done, what he _can_ do.Please, in the name of our fallen sisters, you must understand. They would have wanted us to help."

The violet fairy stared at their joined hands for a long moment, before nodding slowly."You're right, sister. Belle has been nothing but kind; we must look after her."The two fairies embraced, exchanging gentle smiles before turning to face their scarlet friend.

"I'm not going," Ruadh finally spoke, her voice barely louder than a whisper."I won't — I can't see him again — I — " her voiced cracked as she glanced at her scarred wing, her features twisting in anguish.

"You can stay with the boys," Aibreann said softly, placing a gentle hand on the scarlet fairy's forearm, "They need someone to look after them until we return."

Ruadh nodded gratefully, blinking back the tears which had filled her grey eyes.

"Tomorrow at dawn we follow Belle to the southeastern shore," Aibreann declared resolutely, her attention directed toward Flannach and Buidhe. "We must not be seen; if Hook realizes she's been followed, who knows what he'll do."


	22. Chapter 22

A thick gray fog hung over the land, transforming its beautiful, towering willows into ominous shadows. It was one of these vaporous tendrils that woke the sleeping beauty at the base of the Lost Boys' white oak tree, its cool caress making her shudder. 

Belle rubbed her eyes and damp forehead, confusedly taking in her glum surroundings. Her gaze drifted to the eastern horizon and with a start she scrambled to her feet.  The fog clung so tightly to the earth that even with her hands cupped about her eyes, Belle could not determine whether the sun had already risen.  Heart sprinting in her chest, she strained her ears for the tell-tale laughter of the Lost Boys in the cabin, or the trilling notes of the multi-colored finches which nested in the trees.  Only silence greeted her, and though it provided some relief, she could not help but worry that the fog had simply caused the boys and the birds to sleep later as well.

As though sensing her anxiety, the low-hanging clouds parted just enough to reveal the faint glimmer of a star on a canvas of gradually lightening indigo.  A deep sigh passed Belle's lips as she ran a slightly trembling hand through her bedraggled hair. At least an hour would pass before the first golden ray graced the foggy terrain.

Then again, she reminded herself, time in Neverland was unpredictable; she had not lived there a handful of days and already she could tell that the sun seemed to rise and set according to its own preference.  With one last glance at the cabins just visible through the mist and a brief smile at the thought of the children sleeping peacefully inside them, Belle set off for the southeastern shore.

The journey seemed longer and far more exhausting than it had the last time she ventured on it.  With a pang somewhere beneath her ribs, she realized that it was because she had not Peter's company and playful conversation.

The heavy blanket of mist covering the land did not help either, and by the time Belle reached the break in the trees signaling the start of the sandy coast, her hands and knees were raw from tripping so often.  Inhaling the salty sea air, she passed a hand over the intricate belt the Indians had given her, sighing in relief when she confirmed that she had not lost her knife along the way. She tucked it more firmly beneath the belt before stepping out onto the isolated beach.

Without the brilliant rays of sunlight glinting off of its face, the shore seemed far less mystical than it had two days prior **.** No fish jumped merrily in the murky water and the worn dock was vacant of any curious sea gulls.  The cold mist prickled at the back of her neck as she walked toward the dock, making her flesh pucker in gooseflesh. The dull thumps of her feet on the damp wooden planks were Belle's only company as she wandered the length of the abandoned dock.

Only a thin layer of fog rested over the choppy ocean water, occasionally clearing when a particularly strong wave crested.  Belle scanned the area, her eyes squinting as they searched for any sign of the infamous captain and his crew.  Through the gray mist, she could just glimpse the black silhouette of a large ship bobbing gently not more than one league from the shore.  A black flag, mounted on the tallest mast, danced in the wind. And Belle did not need superior eyesight to know that the image displayed on it was a skull and crossbones.

Her gaze darted back to the water, searching for the oblique shape of a jollyboat.

"Well, well, it's no wonder your name means 'beauty.'"

Belle whirled around, her unraveling braids falling about her face as she placed a hand above the heart that was trying to burst through her chest.

The first thing she noticed was the lavish scarlet coat draped over his slender frame, its gold embroidery glistening like fresh tears despite the absence of sunlight.  She could not stop herself from wondering if its rich color was the work of expensive dye, or the remnants of the horrors he had committed in this land.  Her gaze slid up to his face, taking in the strong jaw, the high cheekbones, the unnervingly lifeless eyes which sat beneath his sun-kissed brow.

He might have been handsome once, but something shadowed every feature like a dark sentry.

His stance was casual, the end of his left arm hidden in the pocket of his coat, but the way he stared unblinkingly at her face reminded Belle of a predator stalking its prey.  Her eyes darted to the pocket that hid the source of his infamy.

Though she knew of its lethal existence, had glimpsed the internal and external scars that it had left on the Lost Boys, somehow the hook's concealment only added to her unease.

"I would tell you there is no need to be alarmed," the pirate drawled, smirking, "But I do not enjoy the taste of lies."

"I appreciate the honesty, Captain Hook," Belle responded smoothly, shaking her wind-tossed hair over her shoulders as the pirate quirked an eyebrow. "I summoned you here to discuss the fate of a man you hold prisoner on your ship."

"I am aware; I do know how to read," Hook sneered, languidly stepping closer. Belle felt her face flush lightly, but willed her expression to remain unchanged otherwise.

"I'd like to make a deal, an exchange," she declared, the firmness of her tone reminiscent of the days when she defied her father's advisors and attended the war council.

"Go on," Hook drawled, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in a smirk.

Belle swallowed thickly, glancing down at the pirate's other arm, the lethal end of which was concealed in the pocket of his lavish coat. With a quick assuring nod to herself, she met Hook's eyes.

"Take me instead."

Although she had not truly expected him to immediately acquiesce to the trade, she could not help feeling a stab of offense at the harsh, barking notes of laughter which flowed out of his mouth.  She watched him, her face stony and impassive as she waited for him to speak.

"You know," the pirate finally said, still chuckling, "It is not often that I am surprised. The absurdity of your offer...Why would I possibly exchange access to unparalleled power, for you?"

Belle clenched her teeth as he once more descended into laughter. So, her earlier speculations were correct: Hook was using the dagger to control her true love.

"Oh, but I mean no offense," the captain continued, misjudging her reaction, "You would make a lovely, albeit useless, addition to my crew. And your offer is touchingly noble," he insisted sardonically, a bejeweled hand coming to rest over the place where his heart might have been.  Belle curled her hands into fists until her nails bit into the flesh of her palms.

"So noble, in fact, that I cannot help but wonder the nature of your relation to this man. Such loyalty... Is he your master?" Belle watched as his black gaze ghosted over her figure, suppressing a shudder. "Or lover?"

His words, which would have been rather harmless to any other audience, made the young woman flinch as though struck.  For one brief moment, as the first golden ray of sunlight pierced the sky above the horizon, Belle imagined the evil, merciless queen standing in the captain’s place.  She took a steadying breath, repressing a shudder of revulsion and willing the unbidden memory to retreat.

"Where is he?" Belle asked, hating that a slight tremor had entered her voice.

"Who?" Hook asked, his smirk widening into a grin; Belle bit back a scowl.

"The man you hold prisoner on your ship," she responded gratingly.

"I'm afraid you'll need to be more specific. After all, some of the more disgruntled members of my crew claim they, too, are not there by choice," he drawled, lazily inspecting the rings adorning his right hand. 

Belle glared at him, a twisting sense of dread settling low in her abdomen. At her silence the captain looked up, staring for a moment before a sudden cruel glint entered his gaze.

"How about a name?" He asked in a voice that sounded more like a serpent's hiss.

"H-his name?" Belle whispered, her throat constricting as she once more wracked her thoughts for her true love's moniker and came up empty-handed.

"You've forgotten, haven't you?" Hook asked, and she might have found his tone gentle were it not for the sinister relish in his eyes.  "What a shame," he murmured, and Belle's anguish was replaced by a hot surge of anger as the captain tut-tutted sardonically. 

"But, perhaps all hope is not lost. I am not a cruel man," Hook smiled wickedly, "You may yet possess something I want."

"Name it," Belle forced out through gritted teeth. Hook's smile vanished, his eyes flashing with anticipation.

"Simple: the whereabouts of the Lost Boys' shelter."

A white-hot jolt of fear raced along Belle's spine, settling as a heavy, iron knot in the center of her chest. She inhaled slowly, desperately hoping her face had remained impassive in the quiet seconds following the captain's request.

"I have not met them," she insisted, momentarily pleased that, this time, her voice did not shake. "My home has been with the Indians these past days," she expounded, gesturing to the deerskin dress she donned.

Again the pirate's thin lips parted in a harsh, mirthless laugh that made the knot twist even tighter in Belle's chest.

"It appears honesty is a respect you demand only from others," Hook observed, his black eyes flashing with rage despite the coolness of his tone.

Belle opened her mouth to protest, but the words died in her throat when the pirate captain raised his hook, on the end of which was impaled the letter she wrote the previous morning.

"Exquisite parchment, wouldn't you agree?" Hook asked lightly, something knowing and dark in his gaze that forced Belle to only stare in silence, brow furrowing in confusion. "With its fine, red trim. Hard to forget, let alone replicate."

Belle's mind wildly recalled the intricate beadwork of the Indians; surely their craftsmanship could produce something like fine parchment.

"The Indians—"

"Have never raided my ship," Hook interrupted sharply, "which is the only place on this island where such finery can be found." He stretched his left arm over the water, shaking it so that his silver hook was unsheathed from her letter.

Belle's mouth snapped shut, her feet involuntarily shuffling back a step as she was reminded once more that a meters-long pier and a lethal pirate stood between herself and her only avenue of escape.  Her movement seemed to amuse Hook, whose lips parted in a primal grin as he stepped languorously closer.

"I know you've been staying with them, Belle," he murmured, his gaze focused unblinkingly on her pale face.  Belle wrapped her arms about her waist, slightly exaggerating her terror as the fingers of her right hand took hold of the hilt of her knife.

"Tell me the location of their home."

"Never," Belle vowed firmly.

And this time she could not suppress the shiver of unease at the cold, dead look in his eyes as he chuckled darkly.

"Oh, but you see, my dear," Hook leered, stepping so close that she could feel his breath on her face. "I wasn't asking."

With the speed and precision expected of one who had killed before, he swung his silver hook toward her collarbone.  But Belle was ready for him, and when she deflected his blow with her unsheathed knife, she could not hide a small triumphant smirk at his blatant surprise.

"I feel sorry for you," Belle gasped, blocking his second attempt to mar her with his namesake. "I can't imagine how lonely you must be, spending all your time hunting after _children_. Do you envy them?"

"Your lover has committed far worse crimes," Hook grated, swinging his other arm toward her. Belle managed to duck beneath it, swiping her blade to defend yet another blow from his hook.

"You couldn't understand; your heart is rotten." Wielding the knife the way her true love had taught her, she jabbed at the pirate's side, aiming to wound just enough to disarm him. When her blade was but a breath away from the scarlet coat, Hook whipped around, his right hand capturing her wrist in a vice.

"Where do you think I learned it all, dearie? _Like father, like son_."

Belle's mouth fell open, her struggles to escape ceasing in her shock. This monster, this ruthless murderer...could he really be her true love's...

“No…” she said disbelievingly, a half-sob escaping her lips, “It can’t be. Not you.”

With a cruel grin, he jerked her wrist back, tearing the knife from her grip as she cried out in pain. Before Belle had time to recover, she felt the pirate's long fingers twist in her hair, wrenching her head back so forcefully her eyes watered at the pain.

Through the stinging of her scalp, she could just distinguish the cool caress of a silver hook pressed against her throat.

 


	23. Chapter 23

Neither the shine of the stars nor the waning moonlight penetrated the thick blanket of fog covering the land and sea below.  Even the gentle lapping of the waves against the wooden hull seemed muffled by the clinging mist.  The apparent dismay of the outside world was shared by the slim, disheveled man imprisoned behind the bars of _Jolly Roger's_ brig.

Rumplestiltskin slumped against the bulkhead, both hands fisted in his silver-streaked hair.  He had spent the entirety of the previous day and most of the night searching desperately for a way to protect Belle in spite of Hook's command. Potential deals he could strike with his son presented themselves at a dizzying rate in Rumplestiltskin's mind, but none seemed likely to dissuade the pirate from his current plot. He thirsted not for gold or a return to youth, only for the blood of the boy who cut off his hand. Besides, the terms and provisions of any deal they struck would be severely narrow given the limited magic at Rumplestiltskin's disposal.

His lowest moment had taken place mere hours after the blazing sun had set. The hopelessness of his situation had gripped him like a vice, forcing hot tears to well up in his eyes. "He'll kill her," Rumplestiltskin had whispered despairingly, "And it will be all my fault."

Just when he had been moments away from succumbing completely to his anguish, from sagging back against the wall and letting his dark thoughts reign unencumbered, a voice drifted toward him from the island. It was unlike any other voice he had heard, breathy and soft as the caress of starlight on the ocean surface. The melody and lyrics, however, he recognized immediately: it was the lullaby Belle had sung two nights ago.

As the soothing words and the sweet images they conjured had filled his mind, he felt hope spark once more within him.  Belle had not given up on him, had in fact resolved to jeopardize her own safety for his, and he would be no better than this fiendish shadow of his son if he did not at least try to do the same for her.

He spent the remainder of the night deep in thought, his eyes darting back and forth as he considered plot after plot.

Sinking the ship had crossed his mind several times. The magic he possessed might be sufficient to create several large fissures in the hull, perhaps even light the entire craft ablaze, but there was no way to ensure the captain would not escape on one of the jollyboats. Every option was a gamble, and with the life of his true love hanging in the balance, Rumplestiltskin could not afford the risk.

He now sat in grim silence, watching helplessly through the porthole as the fog lifted and dawn approached. Although he had not heard the captain rise and leave the ship, he had no doubt in his mind that he was on his way right now to the southeastern shore.  The man moved like a shadow, and was twice as dark inside.

_Drip, drip, drip._

Rumplestiltskin started at the new sound, his eyes searching for the source.  The light plopping noises continued, until the length of time between each drop shortened, transforming the sounds into a steady stream.

Without warning, gallons of frigid seawater surged over the floor of the brig, swirling around the iron bars of the door.

For one wild moment Rumplestiltskin wondered if he had accidentally used his magic to pierce the hull of the ship after all, but the water did not seem to be pouring in through a solitary puncture. It gushed through every crack and crevice of the wood, filling the bowels of the ship at an alarming rate.

As the water rose, swallowing the bars of his prison, Rumplestiltskin rose with it, trying desperately to keep his head above the water.  He yanked on the brig's door and banged on the ceiling, searching for any means of escape.  Soon, _very_ soon, he would no longer be able to do so, and Rumplestiltskin would be forced to fill his lungs with the salty water until it claimed his life.

Only a few inches of air remained between the rising water and the planks of the upper deck. Rumplestiltskin pressed his face as close to the ceiling as possible, his body trembling as he drew in one last deep breath.

The moment the water surpassed his head, the brig vanished, as did the entire hull.  Rumplestitlskin stared unblinkingly, his brow furrowed in bewilderment at his new surroundings.  A wide expanse of deep blue lay before him, and with a rush of relief Rumplestiltskin realized he no longer felt the scorching need to draw breath.

His eyes scanned the deep, vast stretch of water in which he was now submerged, taking in the blurry shapes of coral reefs strewn across the sandy floor. He turned about several times, squinting against the salty tide, but the _Jolly Roger_ seemed nowhere to be found.

Rumplestiltskin swam ahead, feeling a bizarrely powerful need to continue forward instead of toward the surface. His movements felt oddly sluggish, as though he were swimming in thick mud instead of clear blue water. He struggled for several moments, before a flash of silver somewhere along the sea floor caught his eye. Rumplestiltskin propelled himself in its’ direction, but then froze. A faint thumping sound **,** which he determined could only be a heartbeat **,** began to pulse in his ears, gradually growing louder. The louder it became, the more it seemed to echo from every direction **,** filling the entirety of the ocean with its heavy thuds. 

Rumplestiltskin placed a hand against his chest, realizing with a chill that the heartbeat was not his own **,** and wondering confusedly whose it could be. He returned his gaze once more to the silver artifact below, forcing his muscles to move him in its direction.  As he swam closer, the rhythmic thumping began to pulse erratically.  A new sound then met his ears, striking fear into the very core of his own heart: a woman sobbing uncontrollably, her breath catching between each wave of wrenching sorrow.  Like the erratic heartbeat, this sound also seemed to carry throughout the entire sea, its decibels growing louder with every passing second.

In spite of the anxiety twisting in his abdomen, Rumplestiltskin swam onward, watching as the contours of the object became clearer.  The ubiquitous heartbeat suddenly began to slow down, transforming Rumplestiltskin's desire to approach the silver object into a gripping desperation. Now within arm's reach of the flashing silver, Rumplestiltskin realized with a wave of surprised perplexity what it was: a hook, sharpened to a lethal point and somehow detached from the wrist on which it belonged.  But it was the glittering chain dangling from its end that truly captured Rumplestiltskin's attention: it was the bracelet he had crafted for his son all those years ago, before he had let his hunger for power drive them apart.

Anticipation writhing beneath his ribs, Rumplestiltskin reached out a hand to grab the chain. The heartbeat slowed even further, the bone-chilling sobs of the woman growing ever-louder. Just as his fingers closed around it, the heartbeat stopped, and time stood still.  For one long moment, all was completely silent, but then the sobbing voice crescendoed.

The water around Rumplestiltskin began to ripple violently, and with a surge of paralyzing panic, he realized that the voice **,** filled with such overwhelming sorrow, belonged to his beloved Belle.

Rumplestiltskin jolted back to the present, gasping sharply and glancing wildly about at the dry, solid components of his prison. He slouched back against the bulkhead, passing a trembling hand through his hair.

Shudders wracked his entire body as he endeavored desperately to assure himself that what he had seen was merely another horrid effect of this land's strange magic.  Yet, he could not ignore how different it had seemed from the others, how it had not been conjured from his darkest memories.  He had never before heard his true love release such wrenching sobs.  The mere memory of her weeping sent an icy chill down Rumplestiltskin's spine that settled as an anvil of dread in his core. And what was the significance of that sonorous, bodiless heartbeat? Why had it ceased its sporadic thumping the moment he had reached for his son's bracelet?

A series of dull thuds and low groans interrupted Rumplestiltskin's thoughts suddenly drawing his attention instead to the burly body hurling head-over-foot down the ladder.  The pirate landed in a disheveled heap on the floor, his cutlass clanging loudly on the iron bars of the brig.  Rumplestiltskin's eyebrows shot up at the sight which followed soon after: a boy, fifteen years-old at most and dressed in a tunic of autumn leaves, pursued the crewman. In his right hand he clasped the hilt of a sword, which he wielded with an expertise unexpected of one so young.

The red-bearded pirate pulled himself off the floor, his cutlass swinging wildly at the boy. Undeterred by the brown curls falling in and practically concealing his face, the lad dodged every slash with the grace of someone engaged in a waltz rather than a duel.  Their blades crossed and clanked harshly, occasionally shooting a shower of sparks into the air. One particularly powerful swipe of the pirate's weapon knocked the boy's sword from his grip.  Sneering triumphantly, he lunged toward the boy. But the lad was prepared; he leapt effortlessly into the air, twisting about and kicking the cutlass out of the pirate's grasp with a grunt. 

Rumplestiltskin leapt to his feet as the pair collided against the door of his prison, each wrestling and swinging his fists to subdue the other. The boy groaned as the pirate landed a blow on his side, and before the brawny cur could raise his fist again, Rumplestiltskin bolted forward and grabbed the back of his vest.  With all of his weight, he yanked the pirate backward into the barred door.  The lad ran forward and clutched the crewman's head, forcing it back against the iron bars with a loud clunk **.**

The pirate's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he slumped to the floor, unmoving save for the rise and fall of his broad chest. They both stared at the body for a moment, chests heaving from the exertion. The boy bent down, placing his hands on his knees as he fought to steady his breath, before collecting his sword from where it lay on the floor and tucking it back into his belt.

"Thanks," he panted, and with a low cough he straightened, pushing his hair back from his eyes.

Rumplestiltskin froze.  All the air in his lungs rushed past his lips as he gaped disbelievingly at the sight before him. The world might have started crumbling about him, and he would not have noticed.

Standing right in front of him, looking no different than the day he had disappeared through the emerald vortex, but for the flush in his cheeks and sweat on his brow, was his son. His _son_ , with his dark locks and warm, kind eyes.  The boy stared back, quirking an eyebrow as his lips slowly stretched into a grin.

"Bae..." Rumplestiltskin breathed, his throat constricting as he struggled to control the shock and relief and unparalleled _joy_ bursting in his chest.

The boy's brow furrowed, confusion replacing the playful spirit in his gaze. "Is...is that your son? The one you're looking for? Belle told me—"  

Whatever words the boy said next did not register in Rumplestiltskin's mind.  The realization that his son did not remember him pierced Rumplestiltskin like a thousand silver hooks.  His breath caught painfully in his throat as he gazed hopelessly into the brown eyes of a son who did not know his own father. 

"I'm Peter, Peter Pan," the lad said, surveying Rumplestiltskin with his head tilted to the side.

Rumplestiltskin forced himself to listen, clearing his constricted throat. “Di-did you say Peter?” Rumplestiltskin stumbled, his thoughts racing back to the murderous plot Hook had intended for him to fulfill.

“That’s’ right,” the boy responded, grinning broadly.   

Rage and revulsion welled like a wave of liquid fire in Rumplestiltskin's chest. Hook had been planning to compel him to slaughter his very own son, to destroy the very reason he came to Neverland in the first place.

Why had the pirate claimed to be his son? Was it merely a clever ruse to deter his prisoner from attacking him **,** should the opportunity present itself? If he had only been lying, how did he _know_ so much?

“Are you alight?” the boy’s concerned voice snapped Rumplestiltskin from his frantic pondering.

“No,” Rumplestiltskin answered almost absentmindedly, but then, his gaze softened as he looked into the worried eyes of his long-lost son. With a tentative, albeit hopeful, smile he added, “But I will be.”

Scrambling footsteps suddenly thundered above and the gruff shouts of several crewmembers echoed from the ship's bow, spurring the young lad into motion.

"I think they've noticed he's missing," he explained in a hushed tone, pointing at the defeated shipmate. "We should get out of here before they realize I'm aboard." 

He withdrew a ring of keys from the belt of palm fronds tied at his waist. Clutching the most rusted of them, he lifted the lock and thrust the toothed end inside.

With a flick of his wrist and a sharp clink, the lock fell open and the door swung wide.  Grinning broadly, the boy turned about, stepping over the unconscious pirate and heading toward the ladder.  Rumplestiltskin made to follow, but his muscles seized just shy of the doorway, freezing him in place.

"I can't," he admitted quietly, his tone not revealing the fury he felt toward his curse and the fiend controlling it.

"What do you mean? Come on," Peter insisted, and Rumplestiltskin nearly jumped out of his skin at the sensation which followed the lad's words.  The magic of his malediction tightened about his will, but it possessed not the same icy talons that gripped him whenever Hook delivered a command. Instead, it felt more like an embrace, a gentle but firm nudge in the direction of the brig's open door.

Rumplestiltskin stared in amazement at the boy who called himself "Peter Pan" as he exited his prison. Hook had explicitly compelled him to stay within the brig until he commanded otherwise. How in all the realms did this boy, _his_ boy—  

"Just wait until Belle sees you," Peter whispered excitedly, breaking Rumplestiltskin's stream of thought. "She doesn't know I've come here. She'll be so happy, she'll probably _fl_ y—"

"Hook has her," Rumplestiltskin interrupted hastily, his fear for her safety returning with the force of a tempest. Peter froze on the steps, his head whipping to the side.

“What?” the boy asked breathlessly, gaping at the older man.

"She sent a letter," Rumplestiltskin continued hurriedly, "They're to meet on the southeastern shore at dawn." 

Peter's eyes widened in terror at his words. "Oh, no..." The boy murmured, raising a hand to clutch at his tousled hair. “I should have _listened_ …”

They both turned their gazes to the porthole, blanching as they saw that the sun was almost entirely above the horizon. Their gazes met briefly, reflecting each other's darkest fears.  They had both borne the brunt of Hook's cruelty, Peter as his archenemy and Rumplestiltskin as his prisoner; the very thought of Belle at his mercy filled them with abject horror.  Not wasting another moment, Rumplestiltskin and Peter scrambled up the ladder.

Just before they reached the deck, Peter stretched out a hand, signaling for Rumplestiltskin to halt his movements.  He scanned the deck, his eyes widening as they settled on the rope steadying the main sail.

"I'm going to distract them," he whispered, nodding in the direction of the pirates lumbering about the bow. "Once I do, we can escape off the stern."

Before Rumplestiltskin could stop his son from marching straight into danger, the boy soared silently into the air. He floated on the ocean wind with more practiced ease than a sea hawk. Curling his arms and legs close to his torso, the boy somersaulted twice, his shadow remaining remarkably undetected by the pirates on the deck of the ship. Rumplestiltskin's mouth fell open slightly as he watched his son alight unnoticed on the gaff of the main sail.

Withdrawing his sword, the lad sliced through the thick ropes fastening the sail to the main mast.  Shouts of alarm and outrage echoed from the crew below as the massive sail fluttered toward the deck.  The pirates shuffled to catch the falling material, some of them becoming trapped beneath its folds.  None of them seemed to have noticed the limber figure flying above them.

Faster than Rumplestiltskin would have thought possible, his son dove back down to the deck and landed at the top of the ladder. He beckoned for Rumplestiltskin to follow as he bolted toward the quarter deck at the stern of the ship.  Rumplestiltskin chased after him, stopping only when they stood at the southernmost point of the craft.

"You can fly?" Rumplestiltskin heard himself ask, his voice laced with awe and incomprehension despite their perilous situation.

"Well, I didn't swim here," the boy answered matter-of-factly, a faint smirk curving his lips.  "It's easy. Here, hold onto me." He grabbed Rumplestiltskin's arm and placed it over his shoulders, hooking his own arm around the older man's waist.

It took all of Rumplestiltskin's resolve not to pull the boy even closer, overjoyed to have his precious son once more at his side.

"Don't let go," Peter said quietly, and the words struck Rumplestiltskin not as a command, but as a stark reminder of the reason he and his beloved son had been separated for so long: he had let him go.

"Never again," Rumplestiltskin silently vowed as the boy swiftly launched them into the air. He could not help but tighten his grip around the lad's shoulders, his unease at the foreignness of flight conflicting with his relief at no longer being trapped aboard the _Jolly Roger_.

The wind whistled past their ears as they rose higher and higher, drowning out the furious yells of the crew as they finally discovered the source of the turmoil.  Low-hanging clouds enveloped them, their cool caress a blessed relief compared to the sweltering bowels of the ship.  A gunshot sounded behind the flying pair, but Peter did not flinch. He steered them toward the lush green island in the distance, his jaw set in grave determination.  Rumplestiltskin could not help but stare at him, at this brave, wonderful boy— _his_ boy— who had come to free him, who had somehow negated Hook's command.  _But, how?_ He wondered as they drifted lower now that they were outside of the _Jolly Roger_ 's range.   

Perhaps the captain was not lying when he claimed to be his son. The anguish in his black eyes and his fury at the mention of his birth name had been far too real to be the mere tools of an imposter. Rumplestiltskin's gaze became unfocused as Hook's words from the previous day echoed in his thoughts.

"You know as well as I, magic always comes with a price...That vortex was meant for you as well."

Could it be…Rumplestiltskin tried to make sense of it **…** that the magical vortex, expecting two persons and receiving one, somehow compensated by _splitting_ his son's soul? Was it possible that these mortal enemies were, in all actuality, the same—

Rumplestiltskin's quiet speculation went unfinished as the golden sands of the southeastern shore came into view.  A weathered, wooden stock protruded into the water, and at the end of it two figures struggled violently.  He heard Peter gasp sharply before their speed increased and they twisted into a dive. Rumplestiltskin's stomach somersaulted at the change, and he gritted his teeth, wincing at the harsh wind that bit at his skin.

His eyes narrowed, Rumplestiltskin watched as the smallest of the fighting pair jabbed a blade at the taller one's chest, but Belle had underestimated Hook's swiftness; whirling around, he grasped her wrist, jerking it so that she dropped the blade with a cry.

As he and the boy soared nearer, Rumplestiltskin watched, horrified, as the pirate twisted his fingers into Belle's long hair, yanked her head back, and pressed his silver hook against her throat.

 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review! :)

Aibreann had to smother a horrified cry with her tiny hands as she watched Neverland's devil twist his fingers in her friend's long, russet tresses. Moments ago the three fairies had arrived at the southeastern shore, concealing themselves behind the bountiful leaves of a shrub growing on the dunes and waiting for the opportune moment to intervene. Heart racing, Aibreann hovered closest to the outermost leaves of the plant, her wide eyes fixed intensely on the scene before her.

The protective pixies had woken that morning just before dawn to a land covered in a blanket of mist and Belle already gone. Panic had filled their hearts, and without further delay they had taken off for the southeastern shore. They had soared as swiftly as possible, but their colorful auras reflected off of the unexpected fog, making it nigh impossible to see. When they had finally alighted on the shore, Hook had already gained the upper hand in a duel the fairies had not even known was taking place.

The moment the silver hook touched her new friend's flesh, Aibreann signaled that it was time to strike.

* * *

 

Belle bit back a whimper as Hook's grip on her unraveling braids tightened. She was still reeling from the captain's earlier confession, her thoughts so jumbled and hazy with disbelief she barely registered his next words.

“The longer you resist,” he snarled, pressing the tip of his silver hook down on the flesh just above her pulse, “The longer your _true love_ suffers on my ship.” Hook's face was so close to hers, his breath ghosted against her skin as he spoke.  Belle remained silent, clenching her jaw and glaring straight ahead at the island in defiance.

What she saw nearly made her cry out in uncontained joy.  Three spheres of light, one green, one orange, and one violet, soared out from behind the leaves of a flowering shrub.  Before they could advance more than a meter, however, the harsh notes of a rooster's crow pierced the air, and this time Belle could not suppress her relief.

"Peter..." she breathed, a smile curving her lips despite the peril of her situation. From her position with her head bent back at a painful angle, she could just make out the dark silhouettes of two figures diving toward the weathered dock.  She recognized the outlines of Peter's autumn leaves, but who was the man he held beside him donning a pirate's garb?

"What a _pleasant_ surprise," Hook sneered as the boy and his companion alighted on the end of the pier. A sob escaped Belle's constricting throat as she gazed at the man: her true love, finally free of his prison, stood not more than two meters from her. He stared silently back at her, his features twisting in anguish as his eyes glimpsed the hook lying against her throat.

“I’m so sorry," she heard herself whisper, and an overwhelming surge of guilt at having led them both into danger swelled in her chest, pulling another soft sob from her lips.

“It's okay, Belle, we're here," Peter assured her softly, before turning his attention to the captain standing behind her. "Let her go," he demanded, curling his hand around the hilt of the sword at his waist. 

Hook chortled darkly, tracing the curve of his lethal namesake along Belle's pale cheek. “Come to watch me kill her like I did your little friend?”

“Hook!” Rumplestiltskin snarled, finally recovering from the painful shock of seeing his beloved trapped within the pirate's clutches.

“You did nothing to stop me then," the captain taunted further, smirking widely as the boy flinched, "And you'll do nothing to stop me now."

“That’s enough!” Rumplestiltskin shouted.

“Don’t listen to him, Peter,” Belle insisted firmly, wincing when she felt the hook press once more against her neck.

Peter swallowed thickly, meeting Hook's leering gaze with a glaring one of his own. “I said, 'let her go.'”

The boy's greatest enemy stared at him for a long moment, his thin lips curling into a sinister grin.

“You’re not the one I want, love," he murmured in Belle's ear, his eyes still trained on the boy standing before him. "So, I will make you a deal. Tell me his name,” he nodded in the direction of her true love, "And I will let you go, unharmed."

"Well, mostly," he added after a moment, twisting his grip on her hair and smirking when she inhaled sharply.

The aching pain in Belle's head and neck was overshadowed by the heavy weight of hopelessness settling in her chest. Her true love watched her, his eyes shining with confidence. 

His faith in her made her throat constrict once more as she sifted frantically through her thoughts, searching for the one name she felt she should have never forgotten.

"Come now, Belle, _surely_ you haven't forgotten," Hook drawled sarcastically, his leer broadening as her true love's gaze momentarily flashed with hurt. Her bottom lip quivering slightly, Belle opened her mouth to guess.

"Tick-tock, tick-tock," Hook hissed in her ear, and she snapped her lips shut, blinking furiously against the tears that threatened to fall.

"Leave her alone!" Peter shouted angrily, scowling as Hook only laughed in response.

"Belle, look at me," her love's calm voice reached her through her mounting panic. She slowly brought her eyes to his, shame and fear battling for dominance in her gaze.

“It's all right, Belle," Rumplestiltskin said gently, his lips stretching in a tentative smile. Swallowing thickly, Belle closed her eyes, willing herself to find something, _anything_ , in her thoughts that might tell her his name.  A memory slowly materialized, and Belle knew it to be one that had taken placed toward the end of her stay at the Dark Castle.

_Belle sat in a plush, high-backed armchair, her legs curled comfortably beneath her. A fire blazed in the hearth, casting shadows and flickering shapes on the tapestry-strewn walls. Sitting before a large spinning wheel in the adjacent corner was a wiry, impish man. His eyes shone like amber and his grayish skin glinted strangely in the firelight. Belle found her gaze drifting to him occasionally, a small smile curving her lips. In her hands she held a tattered leather tome, the words of which she read aloud in a soft voice._

_“The power of a glance has been so much abused in love stories, that it has come to be disbelieved in. Few people dare now to say that two beings have fallen in love because they have looked at each other. Yet it is in this way that love begins, and in this way only.”_

_Her eyes drifted from the page to the man seated in the corner, and she started at finding him watching her, his features furrowed in utmost puzzlement. His hands lay still on the spokes and spindle of the spinning wheel._

_"Is...is something the matter?" Belle asked hesitantly, his attention making her feel all at once giddy and shy._

_Her words seemed to jolt him from his trance, and he cleared his throat awkwardly, fluttering his fingers anxiously. The sheer humanity of it all made Belle's breath hitch._

_"Ah...yes, yes. Just...just listening," he stumbled, turning to face his wheel again with what Belle could have sworn was a blush on his cheeks. A sudden, unexpected desire to have his eyes upon her again welled within her. She wanted him to look at her; she wanted to look at him._

_"It's a lovely story," Belle prompted softly, her voice breathier than usual._

_"Yes," he responded quietly, glancing at her over his shoulder and meeting her gaze with his own, "Beautiful."_

_They held each other's gaze for a long moment, propriety telling them to look away, but something much lighter and sweeter telling them never to do so. Belle wondered what his lips would feel like, and flushed slightly when she saw his eyes dart to her lips as well. Their gazes met again and she was floating and falling at the same time. At last, with a slight cough, the impish man returned his attention to the spinning wheel. The movement filled Belle with an inexplicably powerful sadness, and before she could restrain herself, she opened her mouth to speak again._

_"Wait," she breathed, her heart pounding in her chest, "I...I want to tell you..."_

“I love you," Belle murmured, echoing the words she had been so near to uttering in the memory.  She opened her eyes, staring confidently at the face of her true love. "Rumplestiltskin.”

An unbidden chuckle escaped Peter at her guess, and he pressed a hand to his mouth to stifle it.

“I love you,” Rumplestiltskin responded with a sound somewhere between a gasp and a laugh. Belle beamed at him, before crying out as Hook tautened his clutch on her hair. A chilling jolt of terror that the pirate would not follow through on his end of the deal raced down her spine. 

But a moment later the captain withdrew his hook from Belle's throat, shoving her forcefully away from himself.  Belle stumbled forward, losing her balance and screwing her eyes shut as she prepared to hit the hard planks of the dock.

But that moment never came as a pair of strong, wiry arms caught her around her waist. Slowly opening her eyes, she saw Rumplestiltskin's warm gaze inches from her own. Her lips parted in a brilliant smile as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, staring into the warm mahogany eyes she feared she would never see again. She thought her heart might sing as he pressed his warm lips to her forehead.

"Was that a name or a sneeze?” Peter asked suddenly, grinning puckishly as he hovered a few feet above the dock.  Belle smothered her laugh with her hand, leaning her head against her love's shoulder.

“Well I didn’t pick it,” Rumplestiltskin defended in mock-seriousness, glancing up at the lad with his arms still around Belle.

Hook rolled his eyes, before the sight of Peter's dangling foot suddenly caught his attention. Smirking widely with a wicked glint entering his black gaze, he swung his namesake toward the limb.  The curve of the silver hook snagged the boy's ankle, and with a sharp tug the captain pulled the boy to himself, withdrawing the cursed dagger from within his scarlet coat.

Peter cried out, whirling about and withdrawing his own sword just in time to deflect Hook's blow. The sword and dagger clashed with a shower of sparks as the infamous enemies glared at one another.

“Peter, no!” Belle shrieked, detaching herself from her love's embrace.

“Don’t you touch him!” Rumplestiltskin growled, his face flushing as he advanced on the dueling pair.

“Stay back!” Hook snarled, and the magical chains Rumplestiltskin prayed he would never feel again paralyzed his movements. With a quick glance in Rumplestiltskin's direction, Belle moved to sprint forward, her eyes flashing dangerously as Hook threatened the child she had come to care for as her own.

"Keep her back as well!" The pirate commanded harshly, pointing the dagger in Belle's direction as he swiped at Peter with his hook.  Rumplestiltskin obediently sprung into motion, his hands roughly clasping Belle's arms and pinning them to her sides. She kicked out her legs, her need to protect Peter compelling her to struggle against him, despite how futile the attempt was.

Another loud clang of sword against dagger drew Belle and Rumplestiltskin's attention to the fighting enemies.  They watched helplessly as the boy dodged a simultaneous swipe of both the dagger and hook.

"Rum, the magic," Belle whispered imploringly, titling her head to look up at her true love. "Use it; it's the only way—"

"I can't," Rumplestiltskin interrupted, glancing down at her with anguished eyes, “He’s my so—"

"Rum, you must!" She begged, glancing over at the man whose crimson coat shone like fresh blood in the morning sunlight, "It's the only way to stop them."

Rumplestiltskin started at her words, glancing down at her briefly, before training his gaze once more on the duel. The sound of Belle's frustrated cry and the renewal of her struggling pierced Rumplestiltskin, but he did not relent.

With a grunt Peter slashed his sword through the air, and Hook withdrew his hand just in time to only have his knuckles grazed by the blade.

“Trying to cut off my other hand, boy?" He sneered, glancing at the blood trickling from the joints of his fingers. "Oh, you really are no better than I."

Hook suddenly struck out with the dagger, the blade coming so close to the boy that it sliced several leaves from the side of his tunic. 

"Peter, watch out!" Belle cried from where she stood, immobilized by Rumplestiltskin's unrelenting grip.

“I am _nothing_ like you,” Peter shouted obstinately, launching himself into the air until he was out of Hook's reach. The captain chuckled darkly, anger flaring in his eyes as the boy hovered farther away.

“You’re more like me than you think,” Hook leered, glaring unblinkingly at the boy. Peter propelled himself forward, swinging his sword straight for the pirate's face.

“I hate you,” he declared hotly as Hook deflected the attempt with his silver namesake.

“Believe me, the feeling is mutual. I've hated and hunted you all these years. And I never truly knew why," the captain remarked pensively as he lashed out with his hook once more, "Until now."

“What do you mean?" Peter asked, his brow furrowing as he alighted on the end of the dock, sword at the ready.

“My suspicions about you have been correct," Hook responded vaguely, smirking at the boy's continued confusion. Their weapons clashed once more, and Peter's distraction allowed Hook to knock his sword from his grip.

“What are you talking about?” Peter demanded, slipping beneath Hook's arm so that he was only a meter from where Belle and Rumplestiltskin stood.

“It was you who freed that man from the brig, was it not?” Hook asked, gesturing to Rumplestiltskin with the crooked dagger.

Peter glanced at the man he had helped, nodding slowly. “Yes, but—”

“Let's just test my theory now, shall we?” Hook interrupted, a malicious grin stretching his lips. His black gaze slid to Rumplestiltskin. “Kill Peter Pan.”

The icy chains slithered and constricted around Rumplestiltskin's willpower, forcing him to withdraw his hands from Belle's arms.  Crushing fear unlike any he had ever known filled him as his eyes traveled to the boy's sword lying on the dock.  He heard Belle gasp from somewhere far away as he bent to retrieve it.

“With _magic,_ ” Hook commanded, his voice laced with malignant relish.

Rumplestiltskin obediently straightened, turning his gaze to the bewildered face of the boy. Had his muscles not been cursed into submission, he was certain he would be trembling.

"No! Rum, please," Belle cried, gripping her love's shoulders and trying to haul him away from his murderous path. Rumplestiltskin whipped around suddenly, and for one wildly hopeful moment Belle thought he had listened.  Her hopes were dashed when he shoved her back with so much force she fell to the dock, the collision knocking the wind from her lungs.

Rumplestiltskin's shame and crippling misery at what he had just done to his true love did not encumber his compelled movements. He stalked toward the boy, raising his hand as he summoned the limited magic he possessed. His eyes silently begged the boy to flee, but he seemed too stunned to move.

“You see, I control him,” Hook declared haughtily, his eyes glinting madly as a violet glow appeared around his prisoner's fingertips.  Belle stared up at her love from where she lay, unmoving but for the tears beginning to cloud her vision.

“I’m so sorry,” Rumplestiltskin murmured through the despair constricting his throat.  He closed his eyes, forcing another surge of the magic into his palm. Aiming for his son’s heart, he knew it would be a direct kill. His lightly glowing right hand grazed the sewn leaves covering the boy’s chest.

“Don’t listen to him,” Peter whispered, his brown eyes gazing at the tormented man before him. “Your son wouldn’t want this.”

A strangled sob escaped Rumplestiltskin's throat as his magical bonds suddenly loosened their hold. The violet glow vanished from his fingers as his arm dropped to his side.

“Thank you,” he gasped, unimaginable relief swelling within him as he hurriedly stepped away from the son he had been seconds away from murdering. 

“And so, apparently, do you,” Hook growled, lashing out and snagging the boy's tunic with the point of his hook. The dagger slipped from his fingers as he clutched the boy's shoulder, yanking him closer. His boot-clad feet brutally kicked the backs of the boy's legs, forcing him to kneel while he yanked his head back, bearing his throat.  Both Belle and Rumplestiltskin cried out as the silver hook sliced a quarter of the boy's flesh, spilling several drops of his blood.

“Any last words before I bleed you to your grave?” Hook asked in an unnervingly cordial tone, smirking darkly.

“Yes,” Peter rasped, smiling confidently up at his greatest adversary, whose lips twisted into a wry grin. “To die, will be an awfully big adventure.”

Hook visibly started at the words, his forehead creasing as he stared down at Peter **,** who gazed unflinchingly back at him **.** Through all of his fear, Rumplestiltskin felt a surge of pride at his boy's courage. The two nemeses continued to stare silently at each other, unmoving but for their labored breathing. Rumplestiltskin felt Belle slip her hand into his, squeezing tightly.

All at once Captain Hook seemed to mentally shake himself, the murderous glint once more returning to his black eyes. “Allow me to do the honors, then.”

He raised his namesake, its curved shadow falling on Peter's face as the boy calmly closed his eyes.

Before the captain could swing his hook down, Rumplestiltskin launched himself across the dock. His fingers closed around the pirate's left wrist, forcing the hook away from the boy's throat as he bowled the man over.

The two men fell to the dock with a thud, their hands simultaneously grasping for the other's throat.  Rumplestiltskin landed a blow to Hook's stomach, using his consequent distraction to snatch the dagger from where it lay unguarded.

Pressing an arm against Hook's chest to keep him down, Rumplestiltskin's threw the dagger behind him. He glanced back in time to see Belle catch it and then proceed to help Peter to his feet.

"Take it and run!" Rumplestiltskin shouted, ducking a swipe of the pirate's silver hook and landing a fist in the man's jaw.  Hook thrust an elbow into his stomach, forcing him to double over with a grunt.  Through the haze of his pain, Rumplestiltskin glimpsed Belle and Peter trying to approach.

"Go!" He yelled through gritted teeth, and even as Hook landed another blow, he managed to feel a twinge of relief as he saw Peter close his arms around Belle and launch them into the air. Two glowing orbs soared after them from behind the bushes, their orange and purple hues nearly invisible in the morning sunlight. A green one followed, but then faltered, pausing a moment in midair before darting back down into the bushes. Rumplestiltskin stared a moment longer at the leaves behind which it disappeared; there was something almost familiar about the tiny emerald sphere, like a glimpse of a half-forgotten dream.

Rumplestiltskin shook away the odd sense of déjà vu, hauling himself off of the bruised pirate and grunting as his ribs throbbed. Hook rose to his feet, wiping a trickle of blood from his mouth.

“I don’t want to fight you,” Rumplestiltskin panted, stepping to the side as they started to circle each other.

“I’m afraid you have no choice," Hook scoffed, staring unblinkingly at him as he wiped the bloody tip of his namesake on his coat. The sole of one of his boots landed upon a metal object lying on the dock, creating a dull grinding sound. Raising an eyebrow, the pirate glanced down and raised his foot. His black eyes flashed in interest as he bent and retrieved the knife he had wrenched from Belle's grip earlier.

“Please, son," Rumplestiltskin murmured as the captain straightened and inspected the knife, “Don’t make me do this.”  Hook released a loud, mirthless laugh at his words, sliding his newly acquired blade along the curve of his namesake.

“I’ve been wanting this for hundreds of years, _father._ There is no other way it will end.”

Without another word the pirate lunged forward, slicing the air with both his hook and the borrowed knife. Rumplestiltskin leapt back, snatching up Peter’s sword to repel the hook while the knife narrowly missed his cheek.  Hook scowled at his passive response, poising his weapons for another strike.

"What do you intend to do then, _coward_ , if not fight me?”

“I let you go once…” Rumplestiltskin said quietly, deflecting another simultaneous swipe of the knife and hook, “I can’t do that again.”

“So...” Hook drawled, “You want to _save_ me?” He shook his head, laughing incredulously when Rumplestiltskin did not answer. His gaze returned to his father’s, his smirk abruptly vanishing as he hissed, “Well, you’re centuries too late.”  

The silver hook and blade suddenly cut through the air, once more missing their target as Rumplestiltskin twisted sharply and deflected them both with his borrowed sword.

"You could have broken the deal you made with Belle," Rumplestiltskin panted as Hook poised to strike once more with his weapons, "You could have killed her."

“Just because you break your deals, doesn't mean _I_ will." Hook snarled, his teeth bared and eyes narrowed in fury.

The captain lashed out with his lethal namesake once more, aiming for the older man's stomach while he wildly swung the hand clutching Belle's knife. Rumplestiltskin threw himself to the side, dodging both weapons, but remaining otherwise passive toward his attacker.  Hook's eyes flashed dangerously, his right hand curling into a tight fist. He seemed to collect himself then, his demeanor transforming into one of ease and aloofness, but for the black fury whirling in the depths of his eyes.

“Besides, she's such a pretty thing..." the pirate sneered, languidly stepping closer as he inspected both knife and hook in the waning sunlight, "She’d look much better nailed to the front of my ship than spilled all over this dock.”

White-hot rage swelled within Rumplestiltskin at the horrid image the captain's words conjured. Without another thought he thrust the point of his blade forward, narrowly missing Hook's chest when the man hurled himself aside.

Leaning back against the side of pier, Hook lifted his gaze to Rumplestiltskin's, shaking his head slowly and tut-tutting condescendingly.

“Ah…did I hit a spot?” He asked incisively, the corners of his lips lifting in a wry smirk. Rumplestiltskin’s arm fell to his side, his sword brushing against his breeches as he stared beseechingly at his son.

“Why are you doing this?” Rumplestiltskin asked in a voice that was both a hiss and a whisper.

“This is the monster you've created," the pirate growled, stretching his arms out at his sides. In the next moment he launched himself toward Rumplestiltskin, shoving him against one of the pier's supports and pinning him there with the hand that clutched the knife. He placed his hook beneath the older man's chin, lifting upward and forcing him to meet his dark gaze. “It's time you faced it."

A smirk twisted Hook's lips when Rumplestiltskin visibly flinched at his words. The older man pushed against the pirate's hold, but the latter merely forced him back, his smirk vanishing as his eyes glinted with scorching rage.

“You know,” Hook spoke quietly, leaning forward until his face was a mere breath from Rumplestiltskin's. “You were never really a father to me. Only a disappointment.”

The words pierced Rumplestiltskin more painfully than his son's hook ever had, settling in his heart like the shards of a shattered looking glass. His body jerked forward, whether in hopes of fleeing or fighting Rumplestiltskin did not know, but Hook maintained the upper hand.

“You want your _second chance_?" Hook whispered tauntingly, his voice gruff with barely-contained ire.  He traced his hook along the side of Rumplestiltskin’s face, pausing when the silver point rested at the center of the man's cheek. “ _Kill me_.”

Rumplestiltskin visibly started at the captain's words, his mouth dropping open slightly in disbelief.

“Hook—" he started pleadingly, but the pirate interrupted him sharply.  

“Because if you don’t," Hook grated maliciously, pointing the knife in the direction of Neverland's lush forest, "I will kill _him_.”

Hook's outstretched arm slashed through the air, the point of his blade aiming for his father's face. Rumplestiltskin reflexively thrust his blade before him, stilling Hook's knife mere centimeters from his clammy forehead.  The pirate summoned all of his strength to the arm holding Belle's knife, pressing down so forcefully Rumplestiltskin required both arms to keep the blade at bay. With an animalistic snarl the captain hurled his hook toward Rumplestiltskin's forearm, slicing through the flesh so severely he was able to glimpse yellowish subcutaneous tissue before the wound filled with blood. A gruff cry sounded in Rumplestiltskin's throat at the searing pain.

“I will never stop," Hook snarled through clenched teeth, his black eyes staring unblinkingly into Rumplestiltskin's as blood oozed from the gaping wound. "Until he is _dead_.”

The pirate's words from his earlier confrontation with the young boy suddenly echoed in Rumplestiltskin's mind.

_"I have hated and hunted you all these years. And I never truly knew why...until now."_

The sheer loathing laced in those words turned Rumplestiltskin's blood to ice. He screwed his eyes shut, the horror of his realization nearly knocking the breath from him. Hook and Pan were one, and so long as they both lived, their deadly feud would never cease **.** This monstrous shadow of his son had pursued his lighter counterpoint for centuries, and until his hatred was finally extinguished, he would continue his murderous hunt.

Rumplestiltskin opened his eyes, glaring into the face of the pirate pinning him to the pier's side.

“I won’t let you.” Without a second thought, Rumplestiltskin slashed his weapon through the air, the wind whistling around the blade as it soared toward Hook's throat. The pirate captain swiftly ducked his head, jabbing the point of his knife at Rumplestiltskin's stomach. Rumplestiltskin jumped back to avoid the stab, before lunging once more toward the pirate, grabbing his shoulders and forcing him upright against the wooden supports of the dock. The silver hook sliced toward him again, snagging and tearing the shoulder of his shirt but leaving his flesh unharmed.

“I will destroy everything you love," Hook vowed with sinister fervor, raising the fist that clutched Belle's knife. "Until all you have left is your _misery_ and _guilt._ "

The intensity of Hook's hatred momentarily stunned Rumplestiltskin, and it was by pure survival instinct alone that he managed to block the blade that soared toward his chest. He hurled the flat side of his sword against the joint of Hook's wrist, forcing the pirate to drop Belle's knife with a pained grunt. Rumplestiltskin took advantage of the man's momentary distraction, twisting the boy's sword so that it caught the curve of the silver hook, and then lunging forward so that both Hook and his namesake were pinned against the ledge of the pier.

"You were right about me, Bae," Rumplestiltskin panted, noticing with a pang the way Hook flinched when called by his given name, "Back on the ship." He dodged a sharp kick of the pirate's boot to his shins, pushing his arm against the man's chest so that the edge of his blade rested against his throat.

“You can steal the lives of innocents," Rumplestiltskin grated, wincing as the point of Hook's boot successfully collided with his knee. The captain pushed back against him, forcing them both away from the ledge so that they now struggled in the center of the pier. Silver hook clanged against sword once more, and both men summoned their full might in attempts to thwart the other.

“Threaten my precious Belle before my eyes…” The older man continued breathily, a renewed strength suddenly entering his muscles and enabling him to gradually force the pirate back toward the dock supports.  Though Hook's teeth gritted with the effort, he could not stay Rumplestiltskin's steps.

"Control me, lock me away, force me to destroy whomever you wish..." Rumplestiltskin forced through clenched teeth as Hook's back thudded against the wooden supports of the pier. 

“You can break my heart," he continued, his voice breaking on the last word. His eyes met those of his wretched son, tears prickling at the corners.

"And I will still love you."

For a moment father and son stared at one another, something like surprise flickering in the younger man's eyes. 

“I’m so sorry,” Rumplestiltskin choked around the grief welling in his throat.  

Hook leaned forward at the same time that Rumplestiltskin plunged the blade into his chest, their simultaneous gasps mingling in the air between them. A half-sob escaped Rumplestiltskin a moment later as he withdrew the glistening sword from his son’s flesh. Blood immediately pooled around the wound, and Rumplestiltskin caught his son as his knees collapsed beneath him. They both slowly slid to the base of the dock, gazing down at the blood as it trickled down the pirate's shirt and coat. Rumplestiltskin wrapped his arms around his son's shoulders, cradling him as his face paled and his breathing grew ragged.

"Th-thank you," Hook gasped, his chest heaving with every rasping breath he took. Tears began to blur Rumplestiltskin's vision as he stared down at his dying son, his heart aching as he thought of how much he had suffered.  The man had committed the most unforgivable of crimes, had sewn hatred and cruelty throughout the land, and not once during his tyranny had he enjoyed a moment of reprieve from his own painful bitterness.

 **“** You don't deserve this," Rumplestiltskin murmured, his voice quivering as he placed a hand on the man's forehead, brushing back his unruly hair. A hot tear slid down his own cheek as he stared down into the glassy black eyes.

The pirate's slender frame shook as a wracking cough sent a trickle of blood through the corner of his lips. He inhaled sharply, his lungs rattling, and looked up at the man crouched over him. 

"No, Papa," Hook rasped, gazing up at the older man and raising a trembling hand to his face, tracing the watery path the tear had left behind. Rumplestiltskin covered his son's hand with his own, pressing the cold palm closer to his face as another tear fell. The unfocused, pained look in Hook’s eyes suddenly hardened, and a flash of unrestrained hate once more surfaced in the ebony depths. His bloodstained lips drew back over his teeth in a weak, but no less malicious, leer. "But you do."

The pirate went limp in Rumplestiltskin's arms, the last of his breath softly hissing past his parted lips.  Rumplestiltskin stared down in horror at the body, his eyes wide as he watched his son’s chest slowly deflate, never to rise again.

The hand Rumplestiltskin held pressed to his cheek slowly slid from beneath his fingers, landing with a soft thud above the place where his son's heart no longer beat.

“Bae…”

A crushing wave of grief overtook Rumplestiltskin as he tightened his arms around his son, cradling him just as he had when he was only a babe, before magic and darkness had torn them apart.

 

 


	25. Chapter 25

An unshakeable stillness and silence filled the air around Rumplestiltskin. The sky turned a grayish-black hue that threatened to blot out the sun and a strange shadow fell over the land. The calm water surrounding the dock darkened drastically, becoming a reflection of the night sky that would shortly hang above. The impenetrable fog that had saturated the land and sky that morning had now lifted, replaced with an afternoon ambiance whose red tint glowed against the darkness surrounding Rumplestiltskin **,** nearly matching the bloodstains on his hands.  

Rumplestiltskin stared down at the lifeless body still cradled in his arms. Even in death, his son's face bore the lines of centuries of hardship and hate, though it now shone paler than Neverland's two moons. His half-lidded eyes gazed unseeingly ahead, and although Rumplestiltskin knew no life lingered behind them, they still seemed to glint with the same sinister relish that had laced his son's last words.

_No, Papa. But you do._

The harsh reality that his son had not forgiven him, even in the face of his own death, impaled Rumplestiltskin at his core, and for a moment he could not draw breath around the anguish seizing the remnants of his heart. His eyes traced the fallen pirate's features, landing on the trails of blood leading from his mouth to his chin. This insurmountable pain, the haunting squelch of the sword penetrating his son's chest, the horror of what he had just done: all of it was part of Rumplestiltskin's punishment, of Hook's final revenge. With his last breath, his son had scorned him. His last act had been to curse his father with the unbearable pain and guilt of killing a part of his son, however twisted and wretched that part might have been.

And it was no less than Rumplestiltskin deserved.

Rumplestiltskin’s hand shook as he reached over to the pirate’s half-lidded eyes to close them, if only so that he might imagine that his son was merely sleeping peacefully. As his hand hesitated above the lifeless eyes for a moment, Hook’s body began to change; it sank in on itself, collapsing within Rumplestiltskin's arms even as they flexed and curled desperately to hold on. So quickly that his mind could not process what had happened, the body had grayed and crumbled, disintegrating into dust before his eyes.

A stunned Rumplestiltskin sat alone for several moments, staring unblinkingly at his tightly-balled fist. He numbly uncurled his fingers. The ashy remnants of his son were abruptly lifted by a strange wind that Rumplestiltskin could not feel, dissipating like wisps of smoke and leaving the man's hands empty but for the coagulated blood gathered in the creases. Gone. All that remained in this world of Hook, of his son, was a cold silver gleam by his foot.

Rumplestiltskin torpidly reached down to pick up the morbid souvenir. Mindlessly at first, he held the captain’s symbol of revenge, of depravity born of an inescapable desire to wound everyone around him, just as he himself had been wounded. Rumplestiltskin felt emptiness in that moment as his fingers grazed the metal’s vicious, sharp point, and his throat constricted painfully as the waning sunlight illuminated the scarlet stains on the polished surface. With a prick, a bead of blood pooled from his finger, pulling him from his trance with questions of where his son went, what had just happened... But one question loomed clear above the other jumbled thoughts: _why_?

The cursed part of his mind seemed to sneer the answer in a high, trilling voice: "Magic comes with a price."

Magic: the poison that transformed him into a monster, condemning his relationship with his son and tearing from him everything he ever loved. Fury, blazing and unbidden, surged now within Rumplestiltskin, sending his heart thundering in his chest, and pushing him to his feet.

Still clutching the silver hook in his fist, he stepped toward the end of the pier to gaze down into the murky water below, his calm demeanor belying the rage swelling within him. Only a silver glint from the hook in his hand reflected in the unnaturally dark waters.

As relieving as it was to blame all the pain and loss in his life on one culprit, Rumplestiltskin found himself unable to fully hide behind such a defense. For centuries he had manipulated others for his own personal gain. All the plotting, the crooked deals, and the pain he inflicted on others--it came from himself. He had been the mastermind, the deceiver. He had been relentless in his cruelty, selfish in every respect. His stomach churned at the thought that his own torment was justified, payment earned for services rendered. And he could not be proud of any of it.

Suddenly overcome by grief and scorching self-loathing, Rumplestiltskin launched a foot at one of the supports of the pier with all of his strength, repeating the action over and over despite the ensuing agony he felt. Incoherent shouts erupted from his throat: curses, pleas, phonetic pieces of the unbearable pain welling and surging within him, but even they offered no relief from his crushing guilt. With a final kick to the wood, he whirled around, burying his tremorous hands in his hair. 

Rumplestiltskin frantically paced the width of the dock, his chest heaving with every gasping breath he drew. He could feel the limited store of magic simmer within him, and the temptation to expend it and be rid of it forever burned in his veins. But even as he raised his arm to do just so, he could feel himself hesitate, hear the excuses his mind would offer to continue clinging to the destructive power he knew would forever be a crutch—

A hiss echoed from behind Rumplestiltskin, too sudden and strange to merely be caused by his surroundings. He whirled about, brow furrowing and lips frowning as he called out, "Who's there?"

Complete silence answered him, until another brief hiss-like noise sounded from beside him. Rumplestiltskin's pulse raced as his head snapped to the side; the sound was most definitely caused by a human voice. Another whisper echoed behind him, but before Rumplestiltskin could turn back around, two more sounded forth, one to his right, the other to his left. Another and another joined the eerie, hushed choir, until at least half a dozen voices filled the air. Rumplestiltskin fisted a hand in his hair once more, the other clasping the silver hook at his side, as the harsh whispers increased in volume. Although the disembodied voices threatened to drown each other out, he could just discern specific words tumbling about in the din.

_Hobble foot._

A gruff voice whispered to his right, and Rumplestiltskin had to stifle a yell at how close it seemed to his right ear.

_Coward._

“No," Rumplestiltskin mumbled, his feet staggering backwards. “You’re not real.”

_His wife left him,_ the whispers continued to hiss, _because she couldn’t stand the sight of him…_

Rumplestiltskin shook his head, moaning slightly as he gripped his hair even tighter.

_Why won’t you believe me?_

“Please…” Rumplestiltskin begged, his voice cracking as the echo of Belle's despairing voice raced through his veins like crushed glass. 

_You coward! You broke our deal!_

A whimper passed his lips at the pain in his son's voice.

_You drove him away._

The last whisper tore through him like a tempest, and he fell heavily against one of the pier supports, his arm the only thing keeping him from collapsing to the base of the dock. Rumplestiltskin's eyes remained squeezed shut as the whispers united in a cacophony of cruelty and despair, taunting and torturing him in waves. An onslaught of images bombarded Rumplestiltskin's mind as the voices crescendoed, flashing from one to the next with nauseating rapidity.

Behind closed eyelids he saw a collage of pain and suffering devised by his own mottled and cursed hands: the tear-stained cheeks of a woman he had coerced into trading her firstborn; the stricken features of a peasant-turned-princess longing for the husband _he_ had made disappear.

With a groan, Rumplestiltskin pounded his fist against the wooden pier. “Please..." he croaked, gasping for breath.  But the visions continued, their definition even clearer: 

The frightened face of a mute maid faced with death for a crime she had not really committed; the glassy eyes of the beautiful caretaker he had cast out for no greater sin than loving him; the emerald glare of the vortex as his son vanished within it; and then blood, pooling, dripping, seeping into fabric as his dagger sliced through victim after victim, their screams drowned out by the whispering that grew louder and louder with every rasping breath he took.

“Enough!”

A sudden, impenetrable silence followed Rumplestiltskin's desperate shout. The squawking of seagulls and the whistling of the wind vanished. Even the waves no longer sighed as they slid along the shore.

"Just...stop," Rumplestiltskin gasped, and any resolve he might have had left, crumbled in that moment. With a broken, involuntary sob, Rumplestiltskin slid down the smooth wooden surface of the pier, only stopping when he reached the planks. His back leaned against its sturdy support as he lowered his head in despair.

“What have I done?” He whimpered as another heart-wrenching sob wracked his body. His breath hitched as his brown eyes glanced at the silver hook within his grasp. Hot tears blurred his vision, spilling immediately onto his cheeks and dampening his shirt as he squeezed his eyelids shut.

"Bae..." he choked around a fresh wave of utter grief, knowing that he had failed his son once again. “Forgive me.”

Rumplestiltskin slowly pulled his knees to himself, clenching and unclenching the hand buried in his hair. He wrapped his other arm around his midsection as the strength of his weeping intensified.

With each new agonizing sob that escaped him, he finally allowed himself to break beneath the unbearable weight of all his crimes.

* * *

 

Peter's arms held Belle securely around her waist as they soared in the direction of the Drey, his expression uncannily serious in his determination to get her back safely.  Belle, for her part, stared blankly down at the dagger in her hands.  She seemed to barely register the willows rushing past them or the cold sting of the wind on her face, her thoughts **,** Peter guessed, were still at the dock with her true love.

"We should have intervened sooner," Buidhe's indignant voice echoed from behind the flying pair, "The moment we arrived!"

Peter glanced back in surprise, having not realized that the fairies were following them. He watched as the orange pixie accosted her companion, her tiny hands crossed tightly in front of her chest.

"You know how Hook is, Buidhe," Flannach explained firmly, her violet aura flashing brilliantly for a moment. "He had the upper hand. If he'd seen us, he would have thought Belle had plotted an ambush. How do you imagine he would have reacted then?"

"He would have killed her right there," Peter answered them gravely, glancing down at Belle in concern when he felt her shudder.  He returned his gaze to the treetops, feeling a slight surge of relief upon seeing the thatched roof of his cabin.

"Hold on tight," he murmured to Belle, nodding when he felt her arms tighten their grip, "We're going to land now."

He gently twisted into a dive, carefully maneuvering so that not a single branch caught at their flesh or clothes. When they were several meters from the forest floor, he pulled them upright so that they descended slowly feet-first to the ground. The leaves strewn about the ground fluttered and rustled softly as the descending pair approached.

"I'm going back," Peter declared once their feet met the damp earth and Belle detached herself from him.

"Let me go with you," Belle pleaded urgently, "I'll hide the dagger—"

"No, Belle, it's not safe," Peter interrupted, turning around and preparing to leap into the air again.

"I can't just stay here and do nothing," Belle insisted indignantly, a light flush rising in her cheeks as the boy sighed.

"I should have trusted you when you said he wasn't a pirate," Peter said remorsefully as he turned back around to face her, "You were almost killed... Please, I need to make up for not believing in you."

"Peter..." Belle's voice trailed off, her turquoise eyes slowly filling with tears. "I can't..."

"Besides," he continued quietly, "If he's hurt..." Belle flinched at his words, and he stepped forward, placing a hand on her forearm. "I can't carry you both, Tink."

She stared at him, her face paling, and he felt her arm begin to tremble.

"I know," he responded quietly, moving his hand to one of her own and squeezing gently.  "If I don't return before the sun completely sets, send the fairies," he directed calmly, gesturing to the branch on which Buidhe and Flannach were now perched.  "And call the Indians for help."

"How?" Belle asked, her voice breaking slightly.

"If you call or sing, the wind will carry it to them," Peter explained **.**

Belle nodded reluctantly, recalling how the Indians had heard her lullaby.  She twisted her hands nervously in front of her, watching as Peter moved to turn away again.

"But what if Rum—" she began fretfully, stepping to follow him.

"Trust me," he interrupted confidently, smiling lightly at her, "I got his back."

Belle stared wordlessly at the boy for a moment, before nodding once more.  A tear slipped over the edge of her lashes and slid down her cheek as she drew in a tremulous breath.  

"Be careful, Peter," she murmured breathily, reaching out a hand to smooth back his windswept hair. She managed a shaky smile, stepping back as he turned around and leapt into the air with ease.

"We'll be back soon," Peter called back over his shoulder as he soared past the tree canopy, hoping with all of his youthful heart that he was right.

The tops of the willows whipped past the teenage boy as he darted back toward the southeastern shore. The wind seemed to detect his urgency, changing its current to aid rather than hinder him, so that in no time, he glimpsed the vast expanse of the ocean and the pale ribbon of sand that aligned the coast. With a slight grunt of effort he somersaulted in the air, sinking down several meters so that he would be concealed in the shade of the forest as he approached the beach.  He continued his descent along the tree line, his shadow barely visible on the powdery sand below.

The boy alighted behind the same bushes the fairies must have used earlier for concealment, his chestnut eyes glancing at his surroundings before they fixed unblinkingly on a lone figure occupying the dock. Belle's love—Rumplestiltskin, Peter reminded himself—was leaning against one of the wooden supports, one hand fisted in his hair, the other clutching what Peter could only distinguish as his enemies’ notorious namesake. But it was not the sight of the detached silver hook that struck the young boy most, nor was it the unnervingly black water of the ocean, nor even the blazing red hue of Neverland's quickly-setting sun against the darkened sky.

No, it was the wrenching, gasping sobs coming from the man himself that struck the boy so profoundly he could not tear his gaze away.  He crouched lower, leaning forward to peer more closely through the leaves.

Peter could not remember ever shedding one tear, but here this man, whose frame shook with the intensity of each aching sob, wept enough for ten men. Even the Lost Boys had not mourned with such abandon after Scout's death; did not lose themselves in their grief as this man did now. A surge of something acute like sympathy and sadness welled within the boy, and he brought his own hand to run through his hair **,** releasing a breath he had not realized he was holding.

Although Peter had only known the man since the morning, he felt an inexplicable, gripping need to console Rumplestiltskin **.**  He wanted to ease whatever pain consumed him now, but he had not the slightest clue how. Peter did not even fully understand what sorrow gripped the man in this agonizing vice in the first place **,** and it troubled him more than he wanted to admit.  

In the next moment **,** as though understanding Peter's thoughts, Neverland seemed to breathe a warm, soft breeze over the shore, chasing away the gripping cold that had settled there. The brilliant rays of the setting sun caressed the calming waves, replacing the darkness of the water with an iridescent, liquid gold.

Peter could not suppress a small smile as Neverland’s comforting efforts eased the man's sobs ever so slightly. He leaned closer, watching as the gentle hush of the waves against the powdery sand soothed the man enough to loosen his grip on his hair.

The arm wrapped around Rumplestiltskin's midsection released some of its tension. He slowly leaned farther back against the dock and straightened one of his legs, breathy sobs still escaping through his clenched teeth.  His head titled back to rest against the wooden support, unknowingly displaying his tear-streaked and flushed face to the boy hiding in the shrubbery.

Peter felt a rush of shame as he took in the man's grief-stricken face. Though he had never seen someone weep with such abandon, especially a grown man, he knew he was witnessing something very private. Yet, as more tears leaked from the man's eyes, he still could not tear his gaze away.  Years and years might have passed, and he would not have noticed. The teenager brought a hand to his own cheek, wondering what it would feel like to cry himself, to have a tear there, if it would be cold, for crying did not seem like a very warm thing to do...

"Peter." Aibreann's quiet voice startled the boy from his bizarre trance, and he looked over at her with an embarrassed flush creeping up his neck.

"I—I—was just coming back to—" He stuttered, pushing himself back away from the bushes. 

"I know," Aibreann said gently, and there was a strange knowing look in her soft gaze that Peter did not quite understand.

"Go back to Belle," she continued, floating toward the leaves, "I'll stay with him."

He nodded jerkily, not quite meeting her eyes as he pulled himself to his feet. He glanced back at Rumplestiltskin's defeated figure a few moments longer, before finally turning and darting toward the treetops. 

Even as the wind welcomed him once more, lifting him into its cool embrace, Peter's thoughts remained with the broken man at the beach, to whom he felt most peculiarly drawn.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, please review! We would love to hear from you! :)


	26. Chapter 26

Excluding the narrow strip of Neverland's coast, the island appeared to be almost completely devoid of color as the sun plummeted below the horizon.  The sky remained empty of its usual two moons, and in the absence of light, gray replaced the myriad vibrant colors that normally enshrouded Neverland's flowers. The long vines of the willows cast winding ribbons of darkness all over the forest floor, and when they swayed in the breeze their shadows transformed into gnarled claws that seemed to stretch hungrily toward the boy flying above.

Peter soared in the direction of the Drey, his body so familiar with the journey that his mind had the liberty to wander back to what he had witnessed on the low-lying dock.

Hook was dead: of that much Peter was certain, although he had not seen the body itself.  Perhaps Rumplestiltskin had detached the hook during the duel and the captain had fallen into the sea. Or perhaps the crocodile had finally swallowed him whole, his unrelenting hunger for the sinister pirate finally sated after all these years. But then, the boy worried, why was Belle's true love crying? The image of the broken man still shook him to his core. There had been blood on his off-white shirt, Peter recalled; maybe he was injured.  But his cries had not seemed like the sort he heard the Lost Boys make when they hurt themselves.  They were unlike anything he had ever heard, as though Rumplestiltskin had lost a very part of himself.

Brow furrowed in thought, Peter slowly began his descent toward the island.  The thatched roof of his cabin appeared in the distance, and he swiveled in its direction. He could see the Lost Boys playing several meters away from their home, and Belle, standing right where he had left her and nervously twisting her hands.

Slowly so as not to startle her, the boy descended, landing with a gentle thud on the ground across from her. Her stunning turquoise eyes stared beseechingly at him, and he saw that her hands were red from being wrung so vigorously.

His face must have reflected his solemn and unnerved mood, for Belle's anxious expression immediately intensified and her lips paled.

"It's not what you think," Peter declared gently before her fears could magnify, "He's still at the dock."

"Is he—is he all right?" Belle asked anxiously, and she felt she might faint when the boy seemed to hesitate.  

Peter thought back to Rumplestiltskin once more, to what he had witnessed, knowing that the tragic scene would be forever engrained in his memory.He nodded shakily, choosing not to tell her what he had seen, and not knowing if it was out of respect for the privacy of the moment, or shame for watching it take place.

"Aibreann's with him," he added quietly, averting his gaze to the forest floor. He heard Belle release a small sigh of relief. 

"I hope they return soon. This weather is strange," she noted quietly, wrapping her arms around herself, "Cold and...it sounds silly, I know, but...tense, like there's a storm coming, even though the skies are clear."

Peter did not respond, his gaze remaining fixed on the forest floor even as Belle took a step closer to him.

"Peter," she prompted tenderly after a moment, "Are _you_ all right?"

The constricting emotions Peter had been fighting to stifle in her presence suddenly rushed to the surface: the distraught confusion from the sight at the dock, the uncertainty of how to feel about the demise of his archenemy, and something else, something heavy that had settled deep inside him and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand. He turned away from her, his chest feeling uncomfortably tight. 

"Hook is dead," he murmured so quietly he was surprised when he heard her soft gasp echo behind him.  Silence passed between them, and for a moment Peter wondered if he had mistaken her gasp as a response to his revelation.

But then her petite hand settled on his shoulder, encouraging him to turn and face her. After a brief pause, he complied, slowly raising his eyes to meet hers.

Though he was only a boy, his gaze reminded Belle of the conscripted soldiers returning from the frontlines, the poor souls who had never asked to see the horrors of battle and yet endured them all the same. It made her want to weep, finding such a haunted look in Peter's eyes.

Before either of them could say another word, Belle pulled him into an embrace, wrapping her arms snugly about his shoulders. Peter momentarily tensed at the gesture; he could not recall ever being held like this, with such warmth and tenderness.  She gently tightened her arms when he did not respond, rubbing his back with one of her hands.

His tension melted immediately, and he brought his own arms around her, laying his head on her shoulder as she continued to make soothing circles between his shoulder blades. She turned her head, and a moment later he felt her press a soft kiss to his temple.  Despite the trauma and confusion of the day's events, Peter could not restrain the small smile that curved his lips at her kiss. Never before had he felt so _comforted_ , as though a solid wall of his happiest memories shielded him from any pain.

Only one word came to mind that could properly describe this unique feeling **:**

Mother.

After a few more silent moments, Belle slowly unwrapped her arms from around the boy. She smiled tenderly at him, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

"Come on," she said softly, her eyes traveling down to the cut on his neck, "Let's get that cleaned up."

* * *

Although a tiny red sliver of the sun still remained above the horizon, night seemed eager to fall, its dark shadows and indigo sky swiftly spreading across the land.  The warm breeze that breathed along the coast grew cooler, sweeping past the lone man seated on the dock and raising the hairs on his arms.  Rumplestiltskin no longer wept, his red-rimmed eyes staring blankly at the silver hook still gripped in his hand. Every now and then he drew in a deep breath, closing his eyes against another stab of sorrow.

A bright flash of light suddenly appeared near the sand dunes, causing Rumplestiltskin to crick his neck as he jerked his head in its direction.

“Who’s there?” Rumplestiltskin called loudly, his fist tightening its hold around the source of his son's menacing moniker.

No response met his ears, but he could just distinguish a glowing green light hovering behind the bountiful leaves.

“I know you’re out there," Rumplestiltskin declared angrily, glaring in the direction of the bushes, "You might as well come out.”

A moment of stillness passed before a shimmering orb floated out from behind the shrubbery, propelling itself toward him with the soft humming sound of beating wings.

_A young lad, no older than seven winters, huddled within the hollow trunk of an old oak tree, weeping for someone to find him.  Darkness had fallen over the forest long ago, and the poor boy's teeth chattered with both fear and cold. His eyes were screwed shut against the strange and frightening sounds the woods made at night. Suddenly, a low whirring sound echoed in the distance, seeming closer and closer with every passing second. The boy tentatively opened one eye lid, and nearly cried out at the sight that greeted him: a sphere of emerald light soaring gracefully in his direction._

Rumplestiltskin watched her warily, his narrowed eyes instinctively trailing over her miniscule shape in search of a bag of fairy dust to be used against him. He had seen her aura earlier and felt certain she had been spying on him.

"You should wrap that," the emerald fairy advised calmly, her tiny eyes fixed on the still-bleeding slice on Rumplestiltskin's arm. The man's eyes darted to her face, his eyebrows raising incredulously.

“Excuse me?” He scoffed, frowning as she continued to fly toward him down the length of the dock. His eyes quickly glanced down at his arm wound, widening slightly as they took in how deep it was.

“Who are you?” Rumplestiltskin demanded, his eyes fixed suspiciously on her even as he tore a strip of fabric from his shirt to wind about his forearm.

 _“Don’t be frightened,” The green fairy said soothingly._ _The young boy huddled within the tree hugged his knees to his chest, shivering as the night cold bit at his skin._

_“I’m lost,” he murmured as a tear slid down his cheek._

_“I know,” the fairy smiled, “I’m here to help you.” With a curtsy and a small laugh, she introduced herself: “My name is Aibreann.”_

“We met many years ago, “Aibreann answered quietly, “You were just a lad.”

Rumplestiltkin shook his head in denial, but then paused. His eyes gazed past the green fairy, glazing over as the memory filled his mind.

 _“What is your name, dear heart?” Aibreann asked the young boy, who hiccupped slightly as his crying ceased. The boy looked around briefly, his limbs still tens_ ** _e_** _with fear, before taking in the fairies’ kind, sympathetic face._

_“Rumplestiltskin.”_

“Do you remember now?” Aibreann asked, her eyes brightening with hope. Rumplestiltskin stared up at her for a long moment, before opening his mouth to speak.

“Yes,” he murmured, watching as the corners of the fairy's lips twitched upward. “How did you know it was me?” He asked suddenly, his voice mirroring the suspicion within his gaze.

 _“What a peculiar name!” The fairy said to the young boy, her tinkling laugh nearly inspiring one of his own. “I’m pleased to meet you, Rumplestiltskin,” she added happily, stretching out a little hand for him to meet with his fingertip. He did so, staring in awe at her beauty, at the way her smile_ _seemed to shine even brighter than her green aura._

"I didn't, at first," Aibreann explained quietly, a delicate smile still curving her tiny lips, "Not until Belle said your name. Then I was certain."

Rumplestiltskin looked down at his knees, frowning slightly. “Why are you here?”

_Aibreann withdrew her hand, beckoning for the young boy to follow her. He slowly rose to his feet, unable to take his eyes off of her, and for a moment, he forgot all about his fear._

“I helped you find your way home once,” Aibreann explained softly. Rumplestiltskin's gaze remained fixed on the wooden planks of the dock, a muscle jumping in his jaw as he clenched his teeth.

“Why should I let you help me now?” He grated, looking up, “Why should I listen to _anything_ you have to say to me?”

“Because I am a friend,” Aibreann answered gently, “And at one point in your life, you trusted me.”

Rumplestiltskin shook his head, staring back down at the hook in his hand. “Well, that was before all you cockroaches—” he paused at the hurt expression on Aibreann's face, sighing deeply before continuing in a less aggressive tone. “Let’s just say that fairies and I don’t mix well anymore.

Aibreann watched him silently, sadness sliding into her soft gaze. “You’ve changed,” she whispered eventually.

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Rumplestiltskin sneered sardonically, annoyance flashing in his brown eyes.  

The fairy did not acknowledge his harsh words, continuing to gaze intently down at him. “When did you?”

The cruel smirk that had twisted Rumplestiltskin's lips slowly vanished as he inhaled deeply, his gaze traveling to the dark waves lapping at the dock.

"When I let power make me lose sight of the most important person in my life," he answered in a voice too quiet for anyone but a fairy to hear. Aibreann hovered closer to him, her brow furrowing in sympathy.

"He was your son," she stated softly, gesturing down at the hook still clasped in Rumplestiltskin's hand.

Rumplestiltskin continued to stare ahead at the water, nodding shakily as tears slowly welled up in his eyes once more. Aibreann watched him for a long moment, taking in the emptiness of his gaze, the defeated slouch of his shoulders. Rumplestiltskin was the picture of a man who had lost everything.

“But you have haven’t lost everything,” she said suddenly, alighting on the ledge of the pier so that she was eye-level with the man.

Rumplestiltskin rubbed his eyes, blinking back fresh tears. “I have lost _my son_ ,” he countered, his voice breaking.

"No, you have not,” the fairy responded gently, “Peter still lives. Have you forgotten him in the midst of all your grief?”

Rumplestiltskin averted his gaze, shaking his head slowly. "He has forgotten me," he murmured dejectedly, his voice thick with emotion. Empathy and guilt tugged at Aibreann's heartstrings, and it was only after taking a steadying breath that she was able to continue.

"He will remember, Rumplestiltskin," she assured him fervently, her voice shaking slightly, "You must help him to."  

The man stared out at the still water, watching as the last rays of the sun slipped beneath the horizon and the indigo sky rapidly closed in on the resultant gold and purple haze. His gaze suddenly darted to the fairy, and Aibreann found she could not quite read his expression.

“What is it?” Aibreann pressed gently, concern flashing in her eyes.

"You protected me," Rumplestiltskin said quietly, recalling how relieved and safe he had felt as a young boy to have her near.  The sweetness of the memory was quickly eclipsed by rage, however, as Rumplestiltskin realized his son had not obviously received the same guardianship.

"Why didn't you protect my son?" He asked suddenly, his tone harsh with accusation, "That little blue _pest_ said she sent you here to protect him."

The fairy closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in deeply as she tried to calm the dread welling in her chest at what she was about to admit.

"We thought we were, when we used magic to teach him to fly, to forget. He was so _hurt_ when he arrived..." Her voice trailed off at the tortured look of shame and sorrow that flashed across the grieving father's face.

"The more he flew, the more he forgot. I thought we were helping," she continued after a moment, silently begging Rumplestiltskin to understand, "I never expected that his painful memories would create such a..." Her gaze traveled down to the silver hook held fast in Rumplestiltskin's bloodstained fist, "Monster."

Rumplestiltskin's forehead creased at her admission, the corners of his mouth twisting down in a slight frown. "Are you saying Hook did not come through the vortex? That his creation was not the price of the bean's magic?"

Aibreann nodded, her own eyebrows drawing together in her confusion.

"He only appeared later, just after Peter had forgotten everything. All his pain, it—it must have coagulated.  Oh, if only I had possessed the foresight..."

Rumplestiltskin started at her words, his eyes narrowing as he digested what she had said. "'Must have?' You didn't know?"

"No," she answered, shaking her head as her features twisted in anguish, "They were so different...and neither mentioned anything of their shared past. There have been pirates in Neverland for ages; according to the Indians, the crew arrived much like your son did: through a glowing vortex. But Hook just...appeared.  We assumed he was some kind of magical creature: inhuman, evil.  There was even a rumor that he shed tears of blood—"

"It wasn't a rumor," Rumplestiltskin interrupted quietly, and Aibreann fought to suppress a shudder.  

"I did not realize they were two halves of the same person, until today," she continued, swallowing back her unease at Rumplestiltskin's revelation, "When they both compelled you."

Rumplestiltskin sighed heavily, running his free hand through his hair as the memory of those chilling magical chains forced its way to the front of his mind. 

He pulled himself to his feet, walking slowly to the end of the dock. His hand still clutched the detached silver hook and he stared at its glinting reflection in the murky water. The hum of Aibreann's tiny wings beside him signaled that she had followed.

"I think I am haunted, Aibreann," he said after a moment, in a voice no louder than a whisper, "I have _seen_ things, _heard_ things, here in this land that cannot possibly be real. Terrible things..." He inhaled shakily, shuddering at the memory of the disembodied scream he heard in the forest, the blood he had almost drunk, the rotting corpses in the ocean, the cruel whispers...

"Things from your past?" The fairy asked calmly from beside him, releasing a small sigh when the man nodded.

"Neverland...is a mysterious place. When we brought magic here, the land embraced it more fully than we could have ever expected. It spread, until every leaf and stone was coated in it. I think..." her voice trailed off for a moment as she stared out at the water, deep in thought, "I think the land mimics what we did with Peter, when we helped him forget.  Neverland makes anyone who visits gradually forget the sources of their greatest pain. The boys have forgotten their parents, by whom they felt abandoned. Belle began to forget—" She stopped speaking when Rumplestiltskin flinched, his shoulders tensing as he undoubtedly realized she was about to say "you."

“Then why have I not forgotten my pain?" He snapped, his fist tightening around the hook until his knuckles shone white. “If what you say is even true, why have I been haunted by it _every_ day?” 

"Because you carry it with you every day," she answered ardently, "There is so much darkness within you... This land made you face it, so that you’d have to deal with your pain. You're a cursed man, Rumplestiltskin," she paused when the man inhaled sharply at her words, before continuing gently, "Neverland knows that, and it wants you to be free, just like your son is now."

A gentle breeze suddenly wafted over them, as though the land were voicing its agreement with the fairy's words. It teased at the hair of the dock's two occupants, briefly warming their flesh before drifting back out toward the sea.

"Rumplestiltskin, your son needs you."

"I have killed my son," the man responded despairingly.

"No, you have _saved_ him," she insisted, her voice thick with emotion.

Rumplestiltskin turned his gaze away from the water to meet hers, his forehead creasing in confusion.

"Hook was a personification of your son's bitterness and rage, magnified tenfold," Aibreann explained passionately, hovering beside his right shoulder.  "By slaying one, you have freed the other."

The man stared wordlessly at her, and she could see that he was beginning to believe what she was saying.

“Rumplestiltskin," the fairy insisted, hope lacing every syllable she uttered, "You have given yourself your second chance. All you need to do now is _take it_. Forgive yourself. Only then can you ask your son to forgive you."

Aibreann's voice quivered with unrepressed optimism, her kind eyes pleading for Rumplestiltskin to listen. The man returned his gaze to the hook in his hand, swallowing thickly.

"I have hurt so many..." he whispered, the knuckles of his right hand shining white as he clasped his fingers more tightly around the base of the hook. An unbidden tear slid halfway down his cheek before he wiped it away, looking down.

"And you have paid the price," Aibreann responded, her eyes tracing the wounds on his body and the years of misery written in the lines of his face.

The cobalt evening sky blurred in Rumplestiltskin’s vision once more, his throat constricting, as his mind wrapped around the fairy’s words. He took a step forward, placing both hands on the ledge of the pier and slouching forward as his shoulders shook with restrained grief.

Silence stretched between them before Rumplestiltskin slowly lowered his head against the pier’s wooden ledge, closing his eyes. Choking back a sob, he swallowed thickly against the conflicting emotions welling in his chest **,** and Aibreann felt her heart ache as she watched on helplessly at the man’s inner struggle.

They remained like that for what might have been hours, when Rumplestiltskin's demeanor suddenly changed.  He raised his head, straightening his posture while wiping a hand over his face. After inhaling several steadying breaths, he opened his eyes, and the sheer determination within their depths nearly took the fairy's breath away.

Hesitatingly, he reached the arm bearing the hook out over the water, staring silently at the lethal object that had come to symbolize all of the pain he had sewn, the betrayal he had inflicted on his own son.

"Let go," Aibreann whispered from beside him. Rumplestiltskin inhaled deeply, his hand trembling as he held it over the still water.  Slowly, he uncurled his bruised fingers, watching as the hook fell from his grasp and shattered the water's surface. It sank rapidly, tumbling lightly in the tide before disappearing out of sight altogether.

Aibreann alighted on his shoulder, saying nothing as they both stared at the ripples surrounding where the hook had sunk. Rumplestiltskin glared at her closeness from the corner of his eye, but did not brush the pixie away.

"I need to find my son, Aibreann," he said after staring back at the water for a long moment, and the fairy was relieved to detect a trace of hope in his tone. He bent down to retrieve the sword he had borrowed from the boy, standing and tucking it beneath the sash at his waist. He pivoted his head to look at the island, his eyes scanning the tree line for any sign of a path.

"It's all right," Aibreann interjected calmly, launching from his shoulder and soaring toward a narrow break in the trees. "I'll lead you."

Rumplestiltskin watched her float several meters ahead, before murmuring with a slight smirk, "I know."


	27. Chapter 27

The blazing sun had set, finally ending its race to escape the horrors of the day, and in its place lay the indigo beginnings of a cool and still evening. The land itself seemed particularly still, the vines hanging limply from their willows as the wind ceased to blow.

Rumplestiltskin walked slowly, his muscles aching from his earlier ordeal at the dock, while Aibreann hovered beside him; her beating wings were the only sound accompanying their journey. As they gradually neared the boys' shelter, Rumplestiltskin felt apprehension begin to gnaw at his insides. The reality of his second chance with his son struck him, and he found doubt suddenly joining the whirlwind of emotions he felt.

"How do you know he will remember?" He asked suddenly, worry creasing his brow as he glanced over at the fairy.  She looked back at him, pausing briefly in mid-air as she considered her answer.

"Well I—I can't be sure, but..." Aibreann inhaled a steadying breath, before continuing softly, "Hook was created by Peter's forgotten memories. Now that he has been destroyed, perhaps those memories will return to the boy."

"He disappeared," Rumplestiltskin murmured half to himself, "Hook. After he died, he just...turned to ash, right in my arms." He fought back a shiver at the memory, feeling another stab of remorse at how suddenly he had lost a part of his son.

"I know," Aibreann said gently, concern and empathy surfacing in her warm gaze, "I saw. This is magic unlike any I have ever seen."

Rumplestiltskin sighed deeply, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck.  Hope simmered within the man, but it still fought against the myriad doubts and fears he felt. They continued walking in silence, sinking farther and farther into the darkening forest.  A question still burned within Rumplestiltskin, and as they rounded a large fallen tree, he could no longer keep it within his thoughts.

"Did you teach the other boys to fly?" Rumplestiltskin asked quietly, his eyes trained on the overgrown trail they were following, "Or was it only my son."

This time Aibreann sighed, her regret at not anticipating the price magic would exact still weighing heavily on her heart. "He was the only one who truly needed it," she said after a moment, "The other boys had each other's friendship, and Peter as their caring leader. After a while, though, Neverland made them forget anyway."

Through the remaining soft orange rays that still filtered through the lush tree canopy, Rumplestiltskin glimpsed two figures seated on a log before an unlit fire pit, one wearing a smooth deerskin dress beneath a dark green jacket, and the other a tunic of autumn leaves.

Aibreann pointed a tiny finger in their direction from her position hovering in the air beside him, and Rumplestiltskin was tempted to sprint toward them, his relief at seeing them together, whole and safe, nearly scorching in its intensity.  However, exhaustion and the dull ache that seemed to permeate his entire being kept his steps steady, despite the fierce pounding of his heart.

As they approached the campsite, Rumplestiltskin could see that Belle was gently wiping at the boy's neck with a strip of cloth, occasionally stopping to dip the cloth in a coconut shell settled on her lap. With a rush of affection, Rumplestiltskin realized she was treating his son's wound, her lips pressed together in an expression of concern he often wore when worrying over his boy.

When he and Aibreann reached the break in the willow trunks, the leaves rustling beneath the man's feet, Belle and Peter's heads snapped in their direction.  Rumplestiltskin managed a weak smile as Belle cried out softly, leaping to her feet and immediately bounding over to him.  Her turquoise eyes shone with so much relief and love, Rumplestiltskin found himself unable to speak around the lump that suddenly appeared in his throat.

She flung her arms around him, pressing her face against the side of his neck and half-sobbing when he returned her embrace, wrapping his arms tightly about her waist and burying his face in her russet tresses.  They swayed lightly on the spot as they clung to each other, their joy and relief at having the other near once more too powerful for words.

Rumplestiltskin's arms tightened around Belle as he hid his face deeper in her long hair, the realization that he had nearly lost her forever finally catching up to him. He half-choked on a sob, and Belle held him even more closely, the warmth and sweetness of her embrace chasing his distress away. 

"Belle, I—" He felt he should tell her what had transpired at the dock after she and the boy left, but found himself too drained to relive it.

"Shh...You're back, you're _safe_ ," she whispered, her own voice sounding thick with emotion, "That's all that matters to me right now."

Rumplestiltskin sighed heavily, relieved that she did not press him and knowing he would tell her everything later. He slowly loosened his grip as she pulled back her face to look at him, her full lips trembling slightly as they stretched into a soft smile.  Her eyes traveled over his face and neck, before they caught sight of the scarlet stains on his chest.  Her smile vanished and she removed herself from his embrace with a gasp, gently pulling aside the ruffled edge of the shirt's neckline to peer more closely at the poorly bandaged wound.

"Oh, Rum, you're bleeding," she breathed, her pale forehead creasing in concern as she lightly traced her fingertips over the bandage. Rumplestiltskin shrugged, opening his mouth to assure her that his wounds were not as bad as they looked, even if that was far from the truth, but before the words could leave him a harsh shout pierced the air.

"What are you doing here, _pirate_?" A voice that was too deep to be his son's, but young enough to not yet belong to a man, asked heatedly.

Rumplestiltskin and Belle turned to face the source of the voice, their eyes falling on the tall, lanky form and pockmarked face of a teenage boy standing a few meters from them.  Suspicion and anger filled the boy's eyes as he detached a makeshift stone hatchet from his belt, wielding it high above his head.

"No!" Peter shouted, stepping in front of the gangly boy with outstretched arms. "Pox, it's all right! He's a friend," Peter insisted, grabbing the taller boy's raised arm when he did not lower the weapon.

Pox stared down at him incredulously, his mouth falling slightly open in his disbelief.

"He's not a pirate; he's the man Tinker Belle came here with," Peter explained hurriedly, easing the hatchet out of Pox's grasp. "They were separated, remember?"

Understanding softened the boy's pockmarked features, and he lowered his arm, his ears turning crimson as he looked over to where Rumplestiltskin and Belle stood.

"Right. Sorry," he murmured sheepishly, chewing on his lower lip. Rumplestiltskin heard Belle release a small sigh next to him, and when he glanced over at her she was slowly shaking her head.

"Do you think you could keep the other boys away for a little while, Pox?" Peter asked quietly, looking over his shoulder at the two adults, his eyes briefly falling on Rumplestiltskin's wounds. "Have them play a game or something, while we get cleaned up?"

"What's happened, Peter?" Pox asked, frowning as he took in their various injuries and disheveled appearances, "You've been gone all day."

"I'll explain later," Peter sighed, running a hand through his windswept hair. "I promise," he added in response to Pox's doubtful expression.  Pox glanced at all three of them again, before nodding and turning to walk back around to the other side of the massive white oak tree.

They watched him depart silently, and when he finally disappeared around the large trunk, they all seemed to release a breath they had not realized they had been holding.

"Sorry about him," Peter said after a moment, his chestnut eyes meeting Rumplestiltskin's. "We—uh—don't get along well with pirates, and you sort of look like one," he explained shamefacedly, gesturing to the older man's clothes.

"It's no matter," Rumplestiltskin responded absentmindedly, momentarily losing himself in the brown eyes that he knew were just like his own.

It was then that he remembered the boy's sword tucked in the sash at his waist. He withdrew it carefully, relieved that most of the blood had flecked away during his and Aibreann's trek through the forest, and held it out to Peter.  The boy's eyebrows raised slightly in surprise, and he stretched out a hand to grasp the hilt.

"Thank you," Peter said quietly, pulling the sword to himself. Rumplestiltskin nodded, and the boy smiled softly before replacing the sword in his palm frond belt.

Belle continued her previous inspection of Rumplestiltskin's injuries, lifting his hands with her own to frown at his scraped and bruised knuckles. She looked so focused and distraught, Rumplestiltskin felt an urgent need to see one of her beautiful smiles, the ones he had too often feared he would never see again over the past few days.

"'Tinker Belle'?" He prompted, a half-smirk curving his lips as he recalled his son's curious nickname for her.  As he had hoped, her lips twitched into a smile, and she glanced up from his hands, her eyes laughing.  She opened her mouth to explain, but Peter beat her to it.

"It's her name here," he explained, grinning as he walked over to them. "She fixed a bracelet for me, spent hours tinkering with it. See?"

The boy held up his wrist, showing Rumplestiltskin the thin chain that glittered there. All of the air in Rumplestiltskin's lungs seemed to rush out of him as he stared at the three strings of silver braided together.  It was the bracelet he had made for his son what felt like an eternity ago, when he had only just begun to wield magic. He was both relieved and mystified that his son, the very owner of the piece of jewelry, had found it unwillingly abandoned on the forest floor. But Rumplestiltskin's joy at the sight of it once more clasped around his boy's wrist warred with his despair at the knowledge that Peter did not remember how the bracelet came to be, or who originally gave it to him.

"It's a fine piece," Rumplestiltskin heard himself murmur, and the boy's answering oblivious smile made his heart clench painfully.

"Come on," Belle insisted softly, pulling Rumplestiltskin gently by his uninjured arm to sit on the log she and Peter had been using when he arrived. "We need to treat your wounds before they start to fester."

"They're fine," Rumplestiltskin stubbornly insisted, "You don't have to—"

Belle cut him off with a reproachful glare, pursing her lips and crossing her arms in front of her chest. She quirked an eyebrow as she stared unblinkingly down at him, and with a deep sigh he held out his badgered hands and sliced arm.

Peter snickered behind his hand at their silent battle, sitting down beside the older man on the log and grinning over at him. Rumplestiltskin had to bite back the urge to swat him playfully on the back of his head.

Belle smiled prettily at his surrender, kneeling before him on the ground and retrieving her cloth and water-filled coconut shell.  She placed them in her lap before reaching over and carefully pulling the stained bandage from the wound on Rumplestiltskin's chest.  It caught on some of the coagulated blood, and Rumplestiltskin hissed lightly at the sting.  Belle's eyes flickered to his in apology, before they looked down at the jagged wound, their cerulean depths filling with compassion.

She dipped her cloth in the shell, soaking it thoroughly in the liquid. When she lifted the rag to dab at Rumplestiltskin's wound, he caught her hand in his own, his eyes tortured as they focused on the dark bruises encircling her wrist.

"It's fine," Belle assured him softly, placing her other hand over his own and gazing up at him, " _I'm_ fine. I promise. Let me take care of you."

Rumplestiltskin released her arm after a moment, willing himself to smother the anger he felt at seeing her skin marred so cruelly.  Belle dipped the cloth once more in the shell before applying it to the angry wound on Rumplestiltskin's chest.  Goosebumps erupted on the man’s skin at the coldness, and he could not stifle a grunt as his wound began to throb.

"I'm sorry," Belle said quietly, removing the cloth and gazing up at him, "It's witch hazel. It helps stop the bleeding."

She tenderly dabbed at the torn layers of skin that were still oozing blood.  Once the skin around the wound was clean, she reached over and retrieved a clean strip of cloth from a small pile at the end of the log. That, too, she dipped in the shell, this time pressing it firmly against the still-bleeding cut.

"Could you please hold this here, Peter?" She asked, looking over at the young teenager who was frowning slightly down at bloodstained strip of fabric wrapped around Rumplestiltskin's right arm. He looked up at her, nodding as he leaned to place a hand on the cloth.

"I've got it—" Rumplestiltskin insisted as he raised his own hand, his face feeling somewhat hot at their attention.

"Hush," Belle said sternly, meeting his gaze. "I want to clean your hands first," she explained softly after noticing his discomfort, placing her smooth hand on his cheek for a moment.  Rumplestiltskin hesitantly nodded, lowering his hand as his son scooted closer on the log.  Peter's hand cautiously but firmly pressed on the cloth, holding it in place and helping to stem the blood flow.

Rumplestiltskin could not tear his gaze from the boy, taking in the natural highlights in his hair, the sun-kissed skin of his face and neck, the calmness and compassion in his warm brown eyes as he helped the man he did not know was his father. His gaze settled on the thin, red incision on the boy's throat, and a chill trickled down his spine at the thought of how close his son had come to dying by his wicked counterpart's hook.  The sight of the wound pained him, and before he could stop himself, he lightly grazed it with his fingertips, wanting to erase the mar from his son's flesh.

Peter turned his head toward Rumplestiltskin, his eyes narrowed slightly in puzzlement. Rumplestiltskin swiftly withdrew his hand, mumbling an apology.

"Don't worry, it doesn't hurt," Peter assured him, smiling slightly through his confusion, "Just a scratch."

His son's words filled Rumplestiltskin with unending pride; even without his full memories, Baelfire maintained every vestige of his bravery.

So intent was Rumplestiltskin on relearning every feature and freckle on his long-lost son's face, that he barely registered Belle washing the dried blood from his hands, taking extra care not to jostle his swollen knuckles.

Only when she suddenly gasped sharply did Rumplestiltskin look away, his gaze settling instead on the deep gash on his right forearm, which was no longer concealed by his makeshift bandage. It did not bleed as freely as before, but it was deep enough to glimpse the waxy layer of subcutaneous tissue.

"It needs to be stitched closed," Peter observed quietly, his brow furrowed as his eyes traced the slice. "I can do it."

Rumplestiltskin and Belle stared at him, their eyes wide with incredulity. His lips twitched slightly upward, before he used his free hand to pull up the knee of his short breeches. A thin, clean white line stood out from the rest of his tan flesh just above his kneecap.

"Not too bad, eh?" Peter asked lightly, though his eyes conveyed a gravity that spoke volumes of what he had seen and suffered.  Rumplestiltskin stared at the scar; he did not know which was worse, the nonchalant way in which his son spoke of his own suffering, or the knowledge that it was caused by a monster Rumplestiltskin had helped create.

"All right," Belle's lilting voice interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up to see her glancing doubtfully between Peter and his injured arm.

"I've patched up most of the Lost Boys, too," Peter assured her, "This wound is deep, but it's a straight slice; it'll be simple."

Belle looked back down at Rumplestiltskin's hands, lightly brushing her thumbs across the backs of them.

"I need to find more witch hazel for these hands," she stated, grimacing at the torn skin on his knuckles, "Are you sure you can manage this without me?"

She looked nervously between the boy and the open gash in Rumplestiltskin's arm, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth as she leaned back on her heels.

"We'll be fine," Rumplestiltskin said quietly, a slight smile upturning the corners of his mouth. "I'll stop him if he starts to do any real damage," he added lightly, smirking over at the boy, who grinned broadly back at him.

"I'll be right back," Belle promised, pulling herself to her feet.  She gently removed Peter's hand from Rumplestiltskin's chest, frowning slightly at the still-bleeding cut, before pressing the cloth back down with her own hand.

"Keep that on there," she advised, holding the cloth there until Rumplestiltskin's left hand covered hers. She smiled softly at the contact, before withdrawing her hand from beneath his, turning, and setting out toward the tree line.

"Belle," Rumplestiltskin called before she walked more than two steps away, watching as she glanced back at him, concern written in her beautiful features. "Where is the dagger?"

"With me," she answered, turning to fully face him. She pulled aside the side of her jacket, revealing the crooked blade tucked safely in her beaded belt. Rumplestiltskin was surprised to find that he did not wish to take it from her, knowing she would prevent it from falling into the wrong hands. He nodded gratefully, his warm smile meeting hers, before she turned around once more and stepped into the forest.

A soft thud echoed beside Rumplestiltskin, and he turned sharply to find Peter still sitting beside him, only now he held in his hands a spool of thread and a thin needle made from what appeared to be fishbone. Rumplestiltskin quirked an eyebrow in silent question.

"I flew up to my cabin," Peter explained brightly, "It's up there." He pointed to the topmost branches of the white oak tree, where a round cabin with a thatched roof rested. Rumplestiltskin shook his head in amazement as the boy started unraveling a length of the string, threading the needle with practiced ease.

"This is probably going to hurt," he said apologetically, looking up at Rumplestiltskin, "Mine did."

"What's a little more pain?" Rumplestiltskin heard himself ask sardonically, and he was amused when Peter chuckled.

The mirth left Peter's gaze as he knelt down beside Rumplestiltskin, encouraging the older man to lay the injured arm on the log. Using two fingers, he squeezed the edges of the wound together. With another quick apologetic glance up at Rumplestiltskin, he pierced the man's skin with the needle, sliding it through the hole until it fully emerged on the other side of the gash. He pulled the string through until only the knot at the end remained at the initial puncture site.

Rumplestiltskin flinched at the pain, inhaling deeply through his nose.  The pain was not as intense as he had expected, owing to the remnants of the adrenaline coursing in his veins from the day's events, he presumed.  Nonetheless, his reaction did not go unnoticed by his young medic.

"I'm sorry," Peter blurted, his expression pained as he met Rumplestiltskin's gaze once more.

"It doesn't hurt that bad," Rumplestiltskin responded with a half-smile, trying not to clench his jaw too tightly against the throbbing ache in his arm.

"No, I mean for thinking you were a pirate, for not helping you sooner." The sight of so much regret shadowing his son's features pierced Rumplestiltskin.

"You couldn't have known," Rumplestiltskin insisted.

"But—"

"Please," he interrupted gently, "Don't torment yourself. You didn't know."

Peter nodded slowly, his face flushing slightly as he returned his gaze to Rumplestiltskin's wound.  He completed two more stitches before Rumplestiltskin could no longer stifle a pained hiss.

"Tell me about your son," Peter said suddenly as he prepared to puncture another section of flesh. "Maybe it will help."

Rumplestiltskin stared wordlessly at him for a long moment, before nodding somewhat shakily. 

"He's brave,” he said quietly, “braver than any other child I've ever met.” He flinched when the needle pierced his arm again, closing another centimeter of his wound, yet his gaze remained pensive.  

"He's wise. Sometimes I wonder if he has lived a hundred lifetimes, and remembers them all." His wince was less pronounced as Peter completed another smooth stitch.

"He's kind, selfless. Back in our village, he helped anyone in need, without pause."  This time he did not feel the pain at all, and it was only when he looked down that he realized Peter had stopped and was staring up at him, his head titled to the side.

"What is it?" Rumplestiltskin asked, his brow furrowing in slight concern.

"Oh, nothing," Peter said quickly, jumping slightly as he realized he'd been caught staring. "It's just...you speak so highly of him."

“Well, it's true. He has always been the better man," Rumplestiltskin explained quietly, once more painfully reminded that although his beautiful boy knelt beside him, he was still lost. The boy nodded once at Rumplestiltskin's words, and a moment later he returned to his task, positioning the needle once more.

Suddenly an overwhelming desire to tell the boy the truth, to see familiarity within those warm chestnut eyes, welled within Rumplestiltskin with such intensity that it nearly hurt to breathe.

"Ba—Peter," Rumplestiltskin said abruptly, his heart beating wildly in his chest as his boy turned his face to him again, "You are my so—"

The words died in his throat at the expression in the boy's face. His eyebrows were raised slightly in interest, the right corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile, and his brown eyes...completely lacked any sign of recognition.

The fear of rejection, of the words having no impact whatsoever on Peter's memory momentarily paralyzed Rumplestiltskin. He cursed himself for his cowardice, a muscle jumping in his temple as he twisted his words into yet another half-truth.

"You are so much like him," Rumplestiltskin finished quietly, his chest tightening painfully at the surprise that flashed across the boy’s features. Peter stared at him for a long moment, and although his eyes remained empty of the recognition Rumplestiltskin so desperately sought, they were filled with pride.

"I'm going to help you find him," he vowed fervently, "I swear it."

Rumplestiltskin could only nod in response, his throat constricted with a fresh wave of sorrow at the boy's promise, and the cruel irony of his otherwise kind words.

Peter returned his attention to the wound he was mending, a crease appearing between his eyebrows in his concentration.  The next few minutes passed in relative silence, the only sound between them being Rumplestiltskin's occasional sharp intake of breath at the pain.

He watched his son intently, both marveled by his skill and saddened that it was ever necessary that he acquire it. The only medical prowess Rumplestiltskin had acquired over the twenty-eight idle years he spent in perhaps the most technologically advanced land was a basic familiarity with CPR, courtesy of a public service pamphlet. The idea of possibly bringing someone back to life, by any means, intrigued him enough to even glance at the pamphlet, and then later memorize it.

"What's CPR?" Peter asked suddenly, his eyebrows raised once more in interest, and Rumplestiltskin realized he must have spoken his thoughts aloud. He cleared his throat lightly in embarrassment before answering.

"It stands for cardiopulmonary resuscitation," he explained, and the baffled expression on his son’s face nearly made him laugh.

"People use CPR on someone who is not breathing,” Rumplestiltskin elaborated, “Whose heart has stopped."

“But if they’re already dead,” Peter asked, his eyes narrowed slightly in confusion. “How does it work?”

"It's only used if the person's heart has stopped very recently," Rumplestiltskin explained patiently, “The idea is to breathe and pump the person's heart for them, until they can do so on their own once more."

“Is it magic?" Peter asked interestedly, his head titled to the side.

"Not quite," Rumpelstiltskin chuckled softly; it appeared his son's insatiable curiosity had not vanished along with his memories. “You place your hands right above where the person's heart lies, one overlapping the other, and you press down hard, over and over. Sometimes even a rib can break.”

"That sounds painful," Peter murmured, absentmindedly rubbing a hand against his sternum.

"I imagine it would be," Rumplestiltskin responded, feeling a little unease at the thought. "Once the person wakes up."

Peter remained quiet for a moment as he tied off another stitch, before stopping abruptly. “How do you breathe for the person?" Peter asked, looking up again.

"Well," Rumplestiltskin began, nervously running a hand on the back of his neck, as he hesitated slightly at the memory of the directions. "You place your mouth against theirs—"

"Like a kiss?" Peter asked shyly, his cheeks flushing lightly and looking as though he regretted even asking the question.

"Not exactly," Rumplestiltksin answered, clearing his throat, feeling his own face redden. "You blow air into their lungs."

“Oh…” Peter responded, his blush slowly retreating as he nodded sagely. He stared at Rumplestiltskin a moment longer before returning his gaze back to man’s arm and positioning the needle for another stitch.

“Could you teach it to me?" The boy asked without looking up, his voice quiet despite the eagerness laced within his request.

Peter's question, though simply put, caught Rumplestiltskin off guard. He felt rather unseated at the notion of demonstrating the basics of cardiopulmonary resuscitation for this inquisitive lad.

“U-um," he stuttered, "You mean…now?”

“No,” Peter chuckled, shaking his head before looking up at the older man in all seriousness. “Just, you know, sometime," he added, his eyes seeming so much older than his form suggested. "It might be of use one day."

Whatever discomfort Rumplestiltskin had felt at the boy's request vanished as he was once more amazed by his son's unparalleled willingness to help anyone in need.

“I’ll tell you what,” Rumplestiltskin prompted, the corners of his lips curving up in a small smile, “You teach me what you know about stitching, and I'll teach you what I know about CPR. Deal?"

He removed the compress from the wound on his chest, placing it beside him on the log and stretching his hand out for the boy to shake.

Peter grinned widely, and the pride and determination in his gaze made Rumplestiltskin's heart swell. He laid his needle and string on his lap before placing his hand within the older man's. “Deal.”

They held each other's gaze for another moment, the boy looking so much like he had when they made their last deal that Rumplestiltskin had to fight the urge to pull him into a tight embrace and never let go.

Their hands returned to their sides, and Peter resumed stitching the gash in Rumplestiltskin's arm.  Only a few more minutes passed before the task was complete, the number of stitches totaling at seventeen. While Peter used one of the strips of cloth Belle had collected to clean away the blood, a soft wind blew across them.  Rumplestiltskin's chest wound stung as the cool air met it, and his resulting flinch caused the boy to look up.

A shadow passed over Peter's face as his gaze settled on the jagged, shallow cut. His shoulders slouched slightly, as though all the pain he had endured over the centuries had suddenly settled there.  In that moment Rumplestiltskin felt he had never wished harder to erase his son's woes and replace them with only joy.

"He cut Scout's chest like that, too," Peter murmured, still gazing at the wound. "Only he didn't stop there..." His voice trailed off, his features crumpling at the dark memory.

"He was your friend, the one Hook mentioned at the dock," Rumplestiltskin stated quietly.

"Yeah," Peter responded, his voice barely louder than a whisper as his gaze traveled up to the tree house. Rumplestiltskin's gaze followed the boy's, and his heart hurt when he saw the flowers and wreath draped over a tiny cot. 

“Hook was right," Peter murmured, returning his gaze to the older man. Something dark and heavy settled in his son's brown eyes, and it was only because Rumplestiltskin had experienced it a thousand times himself that he was able to identify what it was: guilt.

"It was my fault," the boy added a moment later, his voice barely loud enough for the older man to hear.

Rumplestiltskin stared at Peter in disbelief for a moment before shaking his head. “Don’t you say that,” he said firmly, his eyes gazing directly into the boy’s.

He wanted to tell his son that he was blameless and good, a perpetual source of light to all who met him, and to think his son could feel responsible for his friends’ death was heart-wrenching. But he found the words trapped in his throat as the boy continued speaking.

“You know,” Peter said, sighing as he stared unfocusedly in the distance, “I used to think everything was a game with Hook. I never _really_ took him seriously until…” He looked down at his lap, swallowing thickly. “That day,” he murmured, “Then, everything changed.”

“Peter, you listen to me,” Rumplestiltskin said, and this time he did not restrain himself when he felt the urge to reach out to his boy, placing a hand on his shoulder, “This was not your fau—" 

"Oh, that looks much better!" Belle's voice sighed, and both Rumplestiltskin and Peter leaned apart, looking over at the beautiful woman whose hands were filled with witch hazel leaves. Her blue eyes were fixed on the stitched wound, and an appraising smile stretched her lips.

"You're a natural healer," she praised lightly, setting the leaves down before the log and ruffling Peter's hair. The tortured emotions that had filled the boy's eyes a moment earlier vanished as he smiled up at Belle, and Rumplestiltskin's heart swelled at how close the two had obviously grown in his absence.

"I told you I was the cleverest one here," Peter responded, smirking playfully up at her.  A tinkling laugh floated past Belle's lips, and Rumplestiltskin could not help but join in her mirth with a low laugh of his own.

"Peter!" A child's voice suddenly squeaked excitedly from behind them. Moments later the cry was repeated by half a dozen young voices, and the air was abruptly filled with the thudding sound of footsteps racing on the forest floor.

A gaggle of boys sprinted around the massive tree trunk, their expressions varying from excited to fretful. The two smallest children ran the fastest, their hair blowing back from their foreheads as they approached.

"Where've you been, Peter?" Nibs asked eagerly, bringing his right thumb up to his mouth to nibble on the nail. Tootles launched himself at Belle's legs, clinging tightly as he cried out, "We've missed you!"

Belle ran a hand through Tootles' sandy curls, opening her mouth to respond, but neither she nor Peter were able to get a word in before the other boys caught up and chaos ensued.  Their raised voices blended together as they asked so many questions, it was nigh impossible to distinguish who said what.

"Who's that man?"

"He looks like one of Hook's!"

"Why's he covered in blood?"

"Peter, what happened to your neck?"

It was the last question, voiced by red-haired Curly, that silenced all the others. Peter quickly raised a hand to cover the wound, self-conscious under all their concerned gazes. Fear flashed across their young features when Slightly suddenly asked:

"It was Hook, wasn't it?"

Peter's mouth opened and closed several times as he struggled to find an answer under their scrutiny. He looked to Rumplestiltskin and Belle, his chestnut eyes silently pleading for help. Rumplestiltskin moved to do so, unwilling to see his son in any more pain than he had already endured, but he was interrupted by the pockmarked boy who had tried to attack him earlier.

"He did," he declared in a harsh voice, "We have to do something!"

"Let's raid his ship!" Slightly yelled, raising his plump fist in the air.

"Grab your weapons, boys!" Pox shouted as he reached for his hatchet.

"No!" Belle and Peter cried simultaneously, their faces panic-stricken.

"Hook is dead."

Everyone in the small clearing froze.  The Lost Boys all turned to peer up at the face of the stranger in their midst, their eyes wide with disbelief.

"Hook is dead," Rumplestiltskin repeated, his voice wavering slightly. "I—I killed..." He felt Belle place a hand on his shoulder and squeeze gently as his voice choked on the admission. Peter turned his head to look at the older man, his gaze startlingly solemn.

" _You killed him_?" Nibs asked in a whisper, slowly lowering his hand in astonishment.

Rumplestiltskin nodded shakily, his constricted throat preventing him from uttering any words.  A brief silence filled the campsite, before the air was suddenly rent apart by whoops and joyous cheers from the boys.

Rumplestiltskin, Belle, and Peter stared silently at each other, their eyes expressing their discomfort at the boys' celebratory display. Peter frowned down at his hands, which were fidgeting with some of the leaves on his tunic.  Rumplestiltskin felt as though he might be sick, the weight of the day's events crushing down on him.

"I'll calm them down," Belle murmured to Peter and Rumplestiltskin, her gaze fixed on the leaping and dancing group of boys. "It's getting cold; maybe you two could gather some firewood?"

Rumplestiltskin felt a rush of gratitude at her suggestion, which he knew she provided as an opportunity for him and Peter to escape the discomfiting scene. He placed his hand on his son's shoulder, turning and beckoning him to walk toward the tree line.  They heard Belle command in a stern voice behind them, "Boys, that's enough."

Their journey deeper into the forest passed in silence. Although the sky was completely dark by now, the luminescent toadstools lining the base of the tree trunks provided enough light to walk unburdened. The sound of a brook tumbling over rocks met their ears, and Rumplestiltskin's steps involuntarily quickened.  He rounded the trunk of a tall willow, and the softly glistening water of narrow stream met his eyes.  His burning thirst compelled him forward, and with a sigh of relief he bent down and scooped some water to his mouth, splashing what he did not drink onto his face.

After a few more gulps of the fresh, cool water, Rumplestiltskin stood, brushing the dirt from the knees of his trousers.  It was then that he noticed Peter had not said a word, and so turned to face the boy, his brow furrowed in concern.  Peter faced away from him, motionless and holding within his arms a small bundle of sticks.  As though sensing Rumplestiltskin's gaze, he turned around, his eyes seemingly focused on something far away.

"Hook really is gone, isn't he?" Peter murmured in disbelief more to himself, before staring up at the older man.

Rumplestiltskin stared back at him for a moment, absently rearranging the firewood under his arm.

"He is," he responded quietly.

Peter nodded slowly, his eyes averting to the forest floor. With a soft sigh he bent down and began gathering more kindling for the fire.

"To think," he said musingly as he broke a large branch into smaller segments, "After all these centuries, all that is left of him is that wretched silver hook."

Rumplestiltskin physically started at the boy’s words, his eyes widening as he comprehended their full meaning.

"H-how do know that?" He asked, his voice somewhat weak with shock. Peter fumbled the stick he was attempting to break, a blush slowly creeping up his neck.

"I—I," he stuttered, nervously wringing his hands as he pulled himself to his feet, "After I brought Belle here, I went back. I wanted to make sure you were all right...And then I saw you—I mean—" 

The boy's voice trailed off as his cheeks burned crimson. Although touched that Peter cared enough to return for him, Rumplestiltskin felt a hot surge of shame as he realized this meant his son had seen what a tortured, grieving mess he had been. He stared wordlessly down at his torn knuckles, afraid of the ridicule he might find should he meet his boy's eyes again.

"I think you're very brave," Peter blurted suddenly, his face still pink. "You fought Hook. You saved my life."

There was such awe laced the boy's words, Rumplestiltskin had to look up. He quickly found himself unable to speak, glimpsing within his son's eyes something he had always dreamed of seeing there: admiration.

His elation at the pride Peter directed toward him was short-lived as the events of the day once more caught up to him.

"I very nearly took it as well," Rumplestiltskin murmured, averting his eyes once more as guilt corrupted his momentary joy.

"Only against your will,” Peter assured him, and the firmness of his answer, the forgiveness in his gaze left Rumplestiltskin speechless.

Peter sat back on his heels, having collected a sufficient amount of kindling for the fire in his lap. He dusted off his hands, frowning slightly in deep thought.

"Do you understand what Hook meant?" He asked suddenly, standing again, "When he said that I could...control you, too?"

Rumplestiltskin hoped Peter had not noticed when he winced at the boy's question. The prospect of telling his son that he and Hook, his worst enemy, were ultimately the same entity was a daunting one.

“To be honest, I'm still trying to figure that out myself,” Rumplestiltskin evaded, relying on the flexibility of words to conceal how much he really knew.  He felt a twinge of guilt when the boy merely nodded, trusting him.

They wordlessly continued gathering firewood, with Rumplestiltskin taking extra care not to upset his stitches. After another brief stretch of silence, Peter spoke again.

“You know, I get it,” He said lightly, his lips curving upward in a grin.

“Get what?” Rumplestiltskin asked, unable to help smiling back at the boy.

“Why you love Mother so mu—” Peter froze, a blush coloring his cheeks, before continuing somewhat abashedly, “I-I mean, why you love Tinker Belle so much.”

Rumplestiltskin's smile widened, and his dream of the three of them being a family seemed more attainable than ever before.

"Peter, do you miss your parents?" He asked, and his heart sprinted as he waited for the boy's answer.  Peter looked up from where he crouched, a slight crease appearing between his eyebrows as he considered the question.

"No," he responded simply, "I don't remember ever having any."

The words, stated with such nonchalance, skewered Rumplestiltskin's heart.

"But," Peter continued thoughtfully, adding a few more branches to his pile, "I like having Belle around." The boy seemed to register his own words only after he had said them, and his cheeks turned pink in embarrassment once more.

**“** You called her 'Mother,'" Rumplestiltskin observed softly, touched by the boy's admission. Peter's face flushed even darker, and he stared down at the bundle of wood in his hands.

"Only because the other boys do. It was just a slip," he mumbled, distractedly rearranging the sticks, and Rumplestiltskin decided to let the matter slide in favor of the boy's pride.

Their individual piles were now large enough to feed a healthy fire, and they slowly started making their way back to the campsite.  Rumplestiltskin looked over at Peter as they walked, frowning slightly when he realized the boy still seemed somewhat put-out by his earlier admission.  In fact, he looked altogether unwell, his face uncannily pale and his eyes glassy as though he were feverish.

“You know, maybe after you find your son,” Peter began, his voice oddly winded and his hand rubbing his forehead, "You could stay. Live here, with us.”

The boy's words tugged at Rumplestiltskin's soul; apparently a part of him did miss having parents.  The thought both pleased and saddened Rumplestiltskin as he wished once more that his son would realize that his father was standing right in front of him, so willing and prepared to be the guardian the boy deserved, or at least try to be.

"Its' a lovely thought, Peter," he said, his gaze traveling over the youth's face, which seemed sallow in the dim light of the toadstools, "But to forget everything..."

"Is that so bad?" Peter challenged, catching Rumplestiltskin off guard. "You'd forget all your pain. Earlier, when I saw you..." he paused as Rumplestiltskin grimaced slightly, before continuing more calmly, "I'm sorry, its' just...I've never seen someone with so much...Why would you _want_ to remember?"

Rumplestiltskin remained silent, his brow furrowing as he stared down at the bundle of branches in his arms. He knew he would never choose to forget all that had transpired, knowing that it led him here, to his second chance with his son. But could he force Peter to remember who he truly was? _Should_ he? The lad had suffered so much as his son; perhaps it would be best that he remain oblivious, free to fly and unhindered by his dark past.

“You and Belle wouldn’t age anymore," Peter continued hopefully, "And your son would never have to grow up.”

“Everyone has to grow up eventually, Peter,” he said quietly, gazing into the boy's glassy eyes.

The boy chuckled lightly, shaking his head, but there was no mirth in his eyes.” I'm never growing up," he declared, his breathing sounding more labored even though he had not exerted himself. “I'm going to always be a—” Peter looked down suddenly, squinting his eyes and raising a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

Rumplestiltskin’s eyes narrowed in concern. “Are you alright?”  He asked, stepping closer to the boy.

“Yea…” Peter responded weakly, “I just need to—”

Before Peter could say anything else, he swayed heavily on his feet, stumbling slightly to the side. In the next moment, he lost his balance completely, flinging out a hand just in time to catch himself on a nearby tree. Rumplestiltskin dropped the bundle he was carrying, his heart racing as he swiftly approached the boy and placed a hand on his shoulder.  

“Bae…” he could not stop himself from saying when Peter did not look up. The boy stared at the ground, squinting as though trying to force his eyes to focus, and Rumplestiltskin watched worriedly as his son drew in a shakily breath.

Nearly as quickly as the color seemed to drain from Peter's face, it returned again, though his forehead remained clammy.  He shook his head slightly, coughing once before smiling tentatively up at Rumplestiltskin.

“Can you sit down a minute?” Rumplestiltskin asked gently, but was not able to hide the fear in his voice.

Peter shook his head. "I’m fine.” he responded, waving a hand as he tried to assure the older man, "I must have stood up too quickly." 

The boy slowly straightened, before readjusting the branches in his arms and then confidently resuming his walk to the campsite.

Rumplestiltskin did not mention that they had been walking for at least several minutes when the dizzy spell had swept over the boy, instead following his lead and retrieving his own bundle.  As he anxiously stared at the boy's retreating back, a deep sense of dread settled like an anvil in the pit of his stomach.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying our story, please feel free to drop a comment; It may encourage faster updates! :)


	28. Chapter 28

Neverland's vast canvas of night stretched across the sky, but it was devoid of any stars and the land's two brilliant moons had yet to rise above the horizon. Only the faint glow of the toadstools lining the tree trunks and the occasional flash of a passing firefly provided any light within the small clearing.

Belle stood before the Lost Boys, her lips pressed together and hands firmly on her hips. After several minutes of exasperated scolding on her part, they had finally quieted, reluctantly seating themselves on the logs surrounding the fire pit.  Tootles, Nibs, and Curly glanced sheepishly up at her, their hands twisting in their laps. Pox and Slightly, on the other hand, sat with their arms folded, indignant scowls pursing their lips.

Belle ran a hand through her untamed tresses, sighing softly as her gaze traveled over each of them.  A moment later she crouched down, kneeling so that she was eye-level with the rambunctious bunch.

"I know he was your enemy," she said softly, her attention especially directed at Pox and Slightly, who fidgeted where they sat, "But you must understand, it is never appropriate to celebrate someone’s death, no matter how much pain the they might have caused you."

"This is _Hook_ we're talking about," Pox scoffed stubbornly, "He's the worst thing that ever happened to Neverland. If you aren't glad he's dead, then what are you?"

The question threw Belle, and for a moment all she could do was stare in bewilderment at the eldest of the boys. She knew it was not joy that she felt at the wretched pirate's death, albeit she was admittedly relieved that he no longer posed a threat to Rumplestiltskin or the boys she had come to love as sons. Grief was also something she did not feel at his death, as it was not easy to mourn someone who was the source of so much pain.

How _did_ she feel about Hook's death, then?

"Sad," Belle answered quietly, unsurprised when the boys' mouths dropped in uncontained shock, "I am sad that he could not be saved."

The children stared at her as though she were mad, their eyes widened in disbelief.

"Saved from what?" Nibs asked, frowning slightly as he continued to nibble on his thumbnail.

"Himself," Belle responded, her brow furrowing as she recalled how lifeless and cold the captain's black gaze had been. Every word he had spoken had been laced with bitterness unlike any she had ever encountered before. "His hate," she added after a moment.

No more questions were asked as the boys pondered Belle's words.  Even Pox seemed less indignant than before, his arms still folded but his gaze more pensive than obstinate. A sudden breeze wafted over the clearing, its chilling caress reminding Belle too powerfully of the feeling of Hook's silver namesake pressed against her throat.

"It's getting cold," Belle observed aloud, shivering more from the unwanted memory than the drop in temperature, "Come, wash your hands and we can start preparing something for dinner; Rum and Peter should be almost finished gathering firewood."

The boys jumped to their feet, obviously relieved that their scolding was over, and raced over to the trough of rainwater resting against the base of the massive oak tree. Belle shook her head bemusedly as they playfully fought each other to reach the water first, with Tootles easily sneaking beneath their legs.

Rolling up the sleeves of her jacket, Belle set about rifling through the trough of vegetables the boys had collected earlier that day. Although much of the plants were foreign to her, the boys had insisted that they were all edible, and would make delicious ingredients for a stew.  She decided on three types of vegetables, all roots that resembled mottled potatoes and misshapen onions, and separated them into piles to be peeled and sliced later.

As Belle had expected, the sound of rustling leaves beneath two pairs of feet soon echoed behind her, indicating Rumplestiltskin and Peter's approach. She turned to greet them, the corners of her full lips curving upward as she glanced the bundles of sticks in their arms. They set them down before the unlit fire pit, brushing their hands off on their pants and frowning at the dirt on their hands in such a similar way Belle almost laughed.

"Thank you," she said, stepping closer as they both straightened to face her. When Peter turned his face up to hers, Belle felt concern replace her mirth as her eyes traveled over him, taking in the sheen of sweat on the boy's forehead and the way he seemed to struggle to catch his breath.

"Are you feeling all right, Peter?" She asked gently, reaching out a hand to cup his cheek. Her gaze darted to Rumplestiltskin's, and she saw concern written in his features as well.  But before either could say anything more, the brave boy spoke.

"I'm fine," he said in a winded voice, smiling confidently at the two adults, "Promise."

The pair looked down at Peter, and Belle moved her hand to his forehead, finding it cool and clammy. She chewed on her bottom lip, again glancing over at Rumplestiltskin, who nodded once, his eyes silently assuring her that they would keep a close watch on the lad.

Peter knelt down, piling the kindling at the center of the pit and carefully arranging the branches in a conic shape. Rumplestiltskin bent down to help him, reaching for his own bundle of sticks nearby.

"Here, let me help—" The man began to say, but Peter quickly interrupted.

"I've got it," he said with more firmness than expected. "Besides, you should—uh—probably find something else to wear," he added in a quieter tone, his chestnut eyes traveling down to the dried blood staining Rumplestiltskin's off-white shirt.

"He's right," Belle said softly, placing a hand on her love’s shoulder and squeezing gently, "I think there's some spare clothes in the second cabin. Not much, but we'll find something."

She released his shoulder and turned toward the winding vine staircase that led up to the Drey. Behind her, Rumplestiltskin sighed softly, rising to his feet and throwing one last fretful glance at his son before following Belle.

The couple climbed in relative silence, but when they ascended past the first cabin and toward the second, Rumplestiltskin finally spoke in an awed voice.

"The boys _built_ this?" He asked incredulously, gazing around at the platform beds and the circular cabins.

"Peter says Neverland helped," Belle answered, smiling at the man’s astonishment, "But yes, they did. They're quite talented, and they've been here for so long..." Her voice trailed off as another wave of pity for the boys welled up in her chest.

The sadness in Belle’s last words was not lost on Rumplestiltskin, and he turned his gaze to her, eyes narrowing in silent question. But she said nothing, shaking herself from her reverie and granting him a slightly forced grin, before resuming her climb to where the Lost Boys' hid their "treasure."

Rumplestiltskin followed her, opening his mouth to ask what had troubled her, but finding the words lost as they surpassed the hatch of the second cabin. Hundreds of luminescent mushrooms grew in the crevasse between the walls and the thatched roof, filling the space with soft blue light that glittered on the myriad objects within it. The small room was filled with knickknacks and treasures varying from bare scrolls of parchment to gilded candlesticks. Belle purposefully walked over to a rectangular trunk lying on its side in the corner, pulling it upright and prying it open with a quiet grunt.

"This is where I found the cloths I used for your wounds," she explained, rifling through the scant articles of clothing within the chest. Rumplestiltskin approached her, kneeling by her side to help. There were only a handful of shirts and trousers inside, and most appeared severely moth-eaten and tattered.  With a low "hmph" of disappointment, Belle stood and moved to sift through the contents on the shelves. She heard Rumplestiltskin continue to rummage through the contents of the chest, occasionally humming to himself in thought.

"This ought to do," Rumplestiltskin declared suddenly behind her, and she turned about to face him, her trademark curiosity compelling her movements.

Belle only just managed to smother a gasp with her hand as she realized Rumplestiltskin had already removed his shirt. Propriety told her in the strict voice of her childhood nurse to avert her eyes, but something else, something much warmer and heady, kept her eyes glued to the plane of his back.  He had a slender build, as she had known, and Belle found herself mesmerized by the way his sinewy muscles moved under his smooth skin as he lifted the royal blue shirt over his head. Her feet subconsciously brought her closer, until she could actually feel the warmth radiating off of his skin. Heart thudding, she trailed her fingertips along his spine, marveling at the softness and hidden strength.

Rumplestiltskin started at her touch, lowering the shirt and wincing as the movement stretched the newly scabbed skin of the wound on his chest. The pain immediately dissipated, however, as her fingers snaked down to his lower back, igniting every nerve ending. His blood pounded in his veins and he remained completely still, fighting the urge to close his eyes at the burning sweetness of Belle's caress. Rumplestiltskin could not remember the last time he had been touched with such sensual tenderness, and as the shirt now hung limply from his hand, he found his heart ached for even more.

She flattened her palm against his flesh, murmuring gently, “Let me help."

After a moment's hesitation, Rumplestiltskin slowly turned to face her, his mouth running dry as her fingers began to slide along his side and across his ribs, lingering over a bruise that darkened there, before freezing just above his navel. Although her face felt uncomfortably hot, Belle let her gaze travel up his torso, pausing at his chest and wondering what it might feel like to lay her head there. She had never felt such unbridled want before; she wanted his touch, his taste, his satin voice and penetrating stares, and all the mystery that lay beneath them-she wanted _all_ of him.

Rumplestiltskin felt a blush creep up his neck as Belle's gaze traced his slim form, and when her turquoise eyes met his, he was beyond relieved to find no trace of revulsion within them. In fact, they seemed to smolder with the same heat he felt surging throughout his entire being. Her hands followed her gaze at a tantalizing pace, tracing unknown patterns against his flesh and causing his breath to catch in his throat. She continued to stare at his face, her cheeks beautifully flushed, as she helped guide his bruised hands through the shirtsleeves. As they lifted their arms to slide the shirt over Rumplestiltskin's head, he could not help but let his own gaze travel over her lithe figure.

Her deerskin dress hugged and complimented each of her curves, and everything about her was so soft and welcoming, he could not help but wonder what it would feel like to trace them with his unworthy hands. Instead, he helped her lower the shirt over his torso, finding his eyes drawn to her full, pink lips once the fabric hung on his thin frame. They were slightly parted, and he subconsciously licked his own lips as he wondered if they would taste as sweet as they had that fateful night too long ago.

Belle's eyelids grew heavy as she watched Rumplestiltskin's gaze settle on her mouth, his head slowly leaning toward hers as he trailed a callused fingertip along her neck, dipping to just barely graze her collarbone.

She tilted her head back slightly, her long eyelashes casting dainty shadows on her blushing cheeks, and he could not keep himself from her lips any longer …

"I call dibs on the log closest to the fire!" A shrill voice suddenly shouted from below, breaking the spell and causing the couple to jump apart.

Belle cleared her throat, smiling shyly before averting her eyes to a nearby shelf and pretending to inspect the objects strewn atop it. Rumplestiltskin coughed lightly, bending down to retrieve the sash he had discarded while removing his ruined shirt.

"I'm-uh-glad you found something suitable," she said, glancing over her shoulder at him and hating how breathy her voice sounded.

The deep blue shirt fit him nicely, and with the golden sash covering the tattered ends of it, Rumplestiltskin would look every bit as appealing as he had in his finery back in their old world.

"I believe you are gawking, my dear," Rumplestiltskin observed smugly, his eyes glinting with that combination of mischief and timidity Belle had swiftly grown to love back at the Dark Castle. She turned to face him fully, the corners of her lips twitching as she fought to hold back a grin. Gasping playfully at his words, she brought a hand to her chest.

"Ladies do not 'gawk'," Belle claimed in mock-offense, frowning briefly before smirking puckishly up at her true love, "They _admire_."

Rumplestiltskin released a hearty laugh at that, smiling in a way that set Belle's heart racing as she joined him.

"Fair enough," he said eventually, still chuckling lightly as he re-tied the sash about his waist. His movement suddenly reminded Belle of the dagger she still carried, and she hurried to withdraw it from beneath her beaded belt. When he finished fastening the sash, she stepped closer, holding the dagger cautiously in both hands. Rumplestiltskin's eyes met hers, and something like trepidation whirled in their depths.

"Here," Belle said calmly, gesturing for him to take the cursed blade from her, "I think this is safest with you."

The anxiety immediately disappeared from Rumplestiltskin's gaze as he reached out a hand and carefully removed the weapon from her grasp, tucking it beneath the sash at his waist.

"Besides," Belle continued as she watched him, breathing a sigh of relief, "It makes me dreadfully nervous, carrying that, knowing what it can do."

Rumplestiltskin smiled softly at her, brushing one of her errant curls behind her ear. "Thank you," he murmured, "For keeping it safe while I was...at the dock."

Belle covered his hand with her own, pressing it against her cheek and whispering, "You're welcome."

Rumplestiltskin felt he could lose himself in the kind sapphire eyes gazing up at him; she was sunshine and sweet summer rain, and she _accepted_ him, all his flaws and his wretched past...

"I love you," Rumplestiltskin breathed, brushing his thumb against her cheekbone, "So much."

Belle pressed his hand even closer, sighing happily, "And I love you."

They remained like that for a long moment, before Belle's expression abruptly turned serious and she removed Rumplestiltskin's hand from her cheek, cradling it in both of her own.

"Now that we have a moment alone, there's something I've been wanting to ask you..." She began quietly, fidgeting slightly with both of their hands.

Rumplestiltskin said nothing, his eyebrows knitted together in nervous puzzlement as he waited for her to speak.

"What Hook said at the dock, about both he and Peter being able to control you," Belle continued, clutching Rumplestiltskin's hands a little tighter when he winced at the memory her words stirred, "Did he mean—Is—is Peter your son, as well? The _same_ son?"   

To Belle's surprise Rumplestiltskin seemed almost relieved at her question, sighing briefly as he thought through his answer.

"Yes," he responded in a voice just louder than a whisper, "They are... _were_ both my Baelfire."

Although Belle had suspected such since the encounter at the dock, Rumplestiltskin's confirmation sent her thoughts reeling. "But how?" She asked in an astonished voice.

At this, Rumplestiltskin smirked slightly, his eyes betraying the guilt and regret Belle suspected he too-often felt. "Magic always comes with a price," he murmured, averting his eyes to the ground, his voice shaking with barely contained emotion.

Belle nodded understandingly, rubbing her thumbs soothingly over his bruised knuckles.  Peter was by some miracle—or rather, _magic_ —Rumplestiltskin's long-lost son as well. The thought alone filled her with such unbridled hope and happiness, she felt she might be able to fly, too.

But regardless of her rejoice at learning that Rumplestiltskin would still have another chance with his beloved son, Belle could not dismiss the reality that her true love had lost a part of him mere hours ago. And so, with a calming breath, she reigned in her joy and asked in a gentle voice, "When are you going to tell him?"

Rumplestiltskin looked up, grimacing slightly at her question.

_Why would you want to remember?_

Peter’s voice echoed loudly in his thoughts.  He inhaled a deep, steadying breath, caressing the palms of Belle's hands before answering hesitantly:

"I...I'm not sure I will."

Belle's response was so utterly shocked, Rumplestiltskin might have laughed, had their conversation been about any other topic. She dropped their joined hands as her mouth fell slightly open, her forehead creasing in abject bafflement.

"Why not? He's your son!" She cried as loudly as she dared, knowing Peter and the boys were only meters below around the fire pit.

"He doesn't remember ever having parents, Belle," Rumplestiltskin explained dejectedly, staring down at his empty hands, "And look how happy and unburdened he is."

Belle stared wordlessly at him, her eyes widened in disbelief.

" _Unburdened_? Rumplestiltskin, that's boy's life has been everything but unburdened here. He considers himself responsible for all the other boys, and he's known such _pain_ —"

"The reason he doesn't remember me is _because_ I caused him so much pain!" Rumplestiltskin argued, fighting to keep his voice from rising and carrying to the children below, "Do you think he deserves to have all that thrown at him _again_?"  

Belle sighed heavily, rubbing a hand across her forehead and brushing back her hair. "He needs you, Rum," she murmured eventually, her turquoise eyes pleading for him to understand, "The past is something to be learned from, not forgotten. You have to—"

"Belle, please," Rumplestiltskin interrupted desperately, taking her hands in his own, "Just let this be, for now. I've watched one part of my son hate and suffer and _die_ because of me; let me have a least a little time with the only remaining part before he despises me too."

"Rum, he's not going to despi—" Belle began, her hands gripping his tightly.

"Belle, don't," he interrupted again, his voice firm and his obvious frustration making her flinch slightly. She bit back another sigh, disappointment and sheer annoyance twisting uncomfortably in her abdomen. Releasing Rumplestiltskin's hands and shaking her head, she turned and walked back toward the hatch.

"I should help the boys finish preparing dinner. It's getting late," she said flatly, and Rumplestiltskin watched silently as she began to descend the stairs, her gaze stoically fixed on the steps before her.  He did not follow her right away, running a hand through his hair and rubbing the back of his neck in exasperation. Of course Belle would believe telling the boy the truth was the best course of action: she was brave, and loved by all who met her **;** whereas he had incontrovertible reasons for others to hate him.

The man heaved a sigh, catching sight of his reflection in a tarnished hand mirror on a nearby shelf and fighting the urge to smash it against the nearest wall. Allowing himself a few more moments to calm down, Rumplestiltskin walked over to the open hatch, descending the wooden stairs slowly.

By the time he reached the ground once more, he could see Belle helping the boys peel some roots to toss in a pot dangling above a healthy fire.  Rumplestiltskin's stomach clenched painfully with hunger as he inhaled the mouthwatering aroma rising from the stew.  When he approached the fire pit, Belle smiled softly up at him from where she sat, though her gaze still harvested some tension from their earlier disagreement.  He sat beside her, reaching out to help peel some of the vegetables, but Belle gently pushed his hand away, handing him some large coconut shells instead to begin passing around to the others.

By the time everyone had a bowl and had seated themselves comfortably on the logs, Belle declared that the stew was ready and removed it from the fire.  They had no ladle, so Belle used her own shell to scoop up hearty amounts of the stew and pour it into the others.  Eating utensils were also apparently scarce on the island, but the vegetables were cut small and cooked well enough to be drunk from the side of the makeshift bowls.

Rumplestiltskin had to bite back a satisfied groan when he swallowed his first mouthful of the thick broth, which tasted like a combination of seasoned russet potatoes and sweet onions.  Four eager mouthfuls later, Rumplestiltskin found his shell regrettably empty once more. Before he could sheepishly ask for more, Belle removed the shell from his grasp, chuckling lightly as she replaced it a moment later filled to the brim with more stew.

While Rumplestiltskin finished his second helping, he felt Belle lightly nudge his shoulder. Looking up, he followed her gaze to his son sitting across from them.  The other boys were still slurping happily from their bowls, but Peter was staring silently into the fire, having only eaten a mouthful or two. His eyes reflected the orange glare of the fire, appearing even more feverish than they had earlier, and Rumplestiltskin felt another sharp pang of worry for the boy's health.

Before he could say anything, however, one of the other lads spoke.

"Listen," Curly said urgently, his ginger curls appearing even more vibrant in the firelight.  Everyone paused their movements, tilting their heads as they followed his command. The air around them was uncannily still, empty of the whistle of the wind and the hush of the vines sliding against each other.

"I don't hear anything," the tiny voice of Tootles said after a few moments.

"Exactly," replied Curly, the corners of his lips curving down in a frown, "No music."

Silence fell over the clearing again as everyone strained to hear even a single note of Neverland's night music, but none met their ears. Belle felt a deep sense of unease at the change, and she found herself scooting closer to Rumplestiltskin on the log they shared.

"Hey Peter, why don't you have a shadow?" Slightly asked suddenly, peering curiously at the ground behind the boys' leader.

"What do you mean?" Peter answered, his brow furrowing in confusion, "I've always had a shadow."

"Well, you don't right now," Slightly responded, pointing a pudgy finger at the place where Peter's silhouette ought to have been.

Peter looked over his shoulder, starting slightly when he realized there was no dark shape to greet him. He swallowed thickly, inhaling a steadying breath before facing the group again, schooling his face into an impassive expression.

"Must be a trick of the light," he said nonchalantly, and only Rumplestiltskin and Belle seemed to detect the slight tremor in his voice, their gazes immediately filling with apprehension as they glanced at one another. Rumplestiltskin leaned over under the pretense of wrapping an arm about Belle's shoulders in order to glimpse the ground behind his son; indeed, the ground was completely illuminated, as though the light from the fire was passing _through_ the boy. Perturbed, Rumplestiltskin glanced at the ground behind himself and Belle, as well as the other boys, noticing how all their shadows appeared perfectly normal in the flickering firelight.

Rumplestiltskin's mind frantically searched through all his knowledge of magic—curses, hexes, jinxes, poisons and their effects—but nothing he had ever encountered before entailed the loss of one's own shadow.  So deeply was he concentrating, that he had not realized the boys had begun speaking again. 

"I wonder where Hook's at," Nibs said quietly, gnawing at the cuticle of his index finger.

"What do you mean 'where Hook's at?" Pox scoffed, his eyebrows raised in disbelief, "He's dead!"

"Well, yeah, but don't people go somewhere afterwards?" Nibs asked shyly, glancing over at Belle for reassurance, "I think my nanny once said—"

"Who cares where he's gone?" Slightly said pugnaciously, "I wonder where he _came from_."

"Hey! We still have his journal, don't we?" Curly asked, gazing around eagerly at the other boys.

Rumplestiltskin quirked an eyebrow at this new revelation, looking over at Peter in silent inquiry.

"We—uh—might have borrowed some things from his ship," Peter explained sheepishly, hesitantly meeting the man's gaze, "But I didn't read it, I swear. It—it wouldn't have been right."

"I read it. I've got it here," Pox said haughtily, pulling a red leather-bound tome from the back of his shirt as Rumplestiltskin, Peter, and Belle looked at each other in consternation.

"You did no such thing," Peter responded sharply, glaring at the older boy as he tossed the book from hand to hand.

"Did too. He wrote about lots of things: his useless crew, a crocodile that follows him, how his mother left because his father was a coward—"

"Hook had parents?" Tootles asked in an astonished voice as Slightly snatched the book to himself and flipped disbelievingly through the pages. The youngest boy's question struck Rumplestiltskin, and once more he felt the dull ache of sorrow deep within his chest.  Belle gripped the hand that he had rested on her shoulder, her warm fingers gently pulling Rumplestiltskin away from the dark memories looming in his mind.

"Look, there're pictures in here!" Slightly cried, pointing a stubby finger at a dark sketch on the page.

"What is it?" Nibs asked eagerly, craning his neck to glimpse the drawing. Slightly pulled it out of the younger boy's reach, squinting down at the page in the firelight.

"Dunno," he answered, turning the journal on its side, "I think it's a...wheel, or somethi—"

"Who cares what it is; let's burn the thing," Pox interrupted, standing and stretching a lanky arm toward the red tome.

"No!" Peter and Rumplestiltskin cried out, jumping to their feet and causing all the other boys to freeze and stare up at them. Peter’s eyes met his for a moment, and Rumplestiltskin felt another surge of pride for his son, who at least respected his deceased enemy's privacy.  Pox sat down slowly, his eyes transfixed on the man and boy now glaring down at him.

"Give it here," Peter commanded firmly, holding his hand out toward Slightly, who cautiously handed the journal over. Peter pulled the journal protectively to his chest, curling his fingers about the edges to snap it shut, but something suddenly stilled his movements.

He stared down at the page, his eyebrows knitting together in concentration as he inspected the sketch. Rumplestiltskin watched him, an inexplicable sense of unease coiling in his stomach.

"I...I think I've seen this before," Peter murmured half to himself, tracing the fingertips of one hand over the picture. "It's a—" Something seemed to startle the boy, and he jumped slightly, his eyes unfocused—or perhaps very focused on something no one else could see--as the diary slipped from his fingers.

The book remained open as it thudded to the forest floor, and Rumplestiltskin felt his heart begin to race as he realized what the image was.

"A spinning wheel," the man whispered, finishing the boy's sentence. Peter's gaze darted to his, and for one exhilarating moment, Rumplestiltskin was certain he glimpsed familiarity in their warm depths. Out of the corner of his eye, Rumplestiltskin saw Belle looking from him to the boy anxiously, her blue eyes wide and glistening in the firelight. But then Peter seemed to shake himself, half-heartedly shrugging a shoulder as he returned to his seat.

"We'll figure out what to do with it later," he said with such finality none of the Lost Boys dared to address the matter further.  Rumplestiltskin moved to sit down as well, his son's continued loss of memory weighing heavily on his hope, but before he could Belle rose to stand beside him.

"Could I speak with you for a moment?" She asked quietly, beckoning her head in the direction of the tree line and taking his hand in her own. Brow furrowing briefly in concern, he nodded, following as she walked a few meters away from the blazing fire pit.

Belle turned to face Rumplestiltskin once they were partly concealed in the dark shadows of the willows, inhaling a deep breath and releasing the hand she still held.

"You have to tell him," she whispered fervently, glancing quickly back at Peter before gazing imploringly up at the man.

"Belle, we've already discussed—"

"I don't understand, Rum. What are you so _afraid_ of?"

"If he remembers me, he'll remember all the pain I caused—"

"He's already beginning to remember, Rum! I know you've noticed," she said urgently, placing her hands on the opened collar of his shirt, "And there's something... _off_ about him—"

"You've known him a handful of days, and you think _you_ know what's best for him?" Rumplestiltskin whispered defensively.

"I'm only trying to protect him," Belle insisted, shaking her head and reaching for one of Rumplestiltskin's hands.

"Well don't; you're not his mother," Rumplestiltskin snapped, keeping his hand from her reach, and Belle flinched as though he had struck her. The moment the words left Rumplestiltskin's mouth, he desperately wished to take them back, knowing Belle had been more of a mother to Bae here than his former wife had ever been. A scorching wave of self-hatred welled within him as he watched Belle struggle to respond, her eyes filling with tears.

Before her tears could fall or he could apologize, the soft, airy notes of a pan pipe floated toward them. The lilting notes of the boy's flute wrapped the motley crowd in its ethereal embrace, silencing all who heard it and suppressing whatever words the couple might have said next.  Even the flames of the camp fire seemed to quiet the crackling steps of their dance.

Belle stared at Rumplestiltskin, some of her ire at their argument dissipating as she watched his gaze soften. “What is it?” she whispered, tentatively placing a hand on his forearm.

Rumplestiltskin remained quiet for a moment longer, closing his eyes. “The music,” he breathed, “It's a lullaby.”

“How do you know?” Belle murmured, her gaze fixed on the boy playing the entrancing tune.

Rumplestiltskin inhaled deeply as the boy’s song warmed him to his core. Then, opening his eyes and returning his gaze back to Belle, he responded quietly, “Because I used to sing it to him.”

The memory swam to the front of Rumplestiltskin's mind as his legs seemed to slowly carry him toward his son of their own accord.

_Tiny, trembling hands clutched the front of his shirt and a head of dark curls buried itself in the crook of his neck.  The warm, flushed cheek of a child pressed against the line of Rumplestiltskin's jaw as rain mercilessly pelted the thatched roof of their tiny cabin. A bolt of lightning struck a nearby tree, the resulting explosion of thunder startling both father and son.  Baelfire's grip grew even tighter as he shuddered, hiding his face against Rumplestiltskin's neck. Even when confronted with a furious storm, his brave boy did not cry._

_"Sing something, Papa. Make the storm go away," he whispered as another clash of thunder sounded overhead. Rumplestiltskin nodded, rubbing soothing circles against his boy's back as he searched his mind for the lullaby his son requested._

_Gently rocking the toddler, Rumplestiltskin hummed the melody, smiling softly as he felt some of the tension leave his son's body. After a few moments, he opened his mouth to sing, weaving a melodious tale of a boy whose only wish was for the happiness of his village and herd of sheep. His voice strained on the higher notes and his brogue sounded even thicker as he sang the folk song his own father had taught him, but Bae did not seem to mind, sighing contentedly.  By the second verse, the lad had joined in, humming sleepily along as his eyelids slowly drooped closed._

_When the boy's humming quieted and his breathing was even, Rumplestiltskin carefully laid him back down on the straw mattress, tenderly brushing the dark curls from his forehead and pressing a kiss there. Smiling down at his son, Rumplestiltskin softly sang the last verse:_

_And every night, before his family retires,_

_The man calls his sons to sit by the fire,_

_"Listen, my dears, I've a story to tell,_

_About a shepherd boy and a wishing well."_

Rumplestiltskin felt his lips form into the same soft smile he wore in the sweet memory, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. It was then that he realized his son had stopped playing the melody on his flute, and that everyone was staring at him.

He now stood only a few steps from where the boy sat.  Blinking away the tears that had gathered in his eyes, and feeling a slight flush in his cheeks from embarrassment, Rumplestiltskin gazed down at his son.

"Where did you learn that?" He asked in a voice no louder than a whisper, searching for any sign of recognition in his son's chestnut eyes.  Peter turned his gaze to the flute in his hands, frowning slightly.

"My papa sang—" He paused suddenly, slowly lifting his head as he seemed to realize just what he was saying. "Sang it to me," he finished quietly, his voice breathy with astonishment.

Rumplestiltskin felt such a rush of hope and affection at the boy's words, he could not keep himself from glancing back at Belle, seeing his own wonder reflected in her blue eyes. He turned back to face his son again, waiting with bated breath for Peter to continue.

"I thought you didn't have any parents?" Nibs asked abruptly, tilting his head to the side and lowering his hand from his mouth.

"I thought I didn't."

The boy said no more, chewing on his lip and staring into the fire as he apparently mulled over this unexpected revelation.

"Do you remember your mother? The one you had before Belle?" Tootles asked from beside Nibs, his green eyes bright with interest. Peter's eyes narrowed as he considered the youngest Lost Boy's question.

Rumplestiltskin's stomach seemed to somersault over itself as he watched his son's forehead crease in concentration, his mind obviously struggling to grasp the tendrils of some distant memory.

"Not—not much, but...she was very beautiful," he said after a pause, his voice mystified as though he was wondering aloud.

"What about your papa? What was he like?" Tootles' curious voice asked again, and he leaned forward in anticipation.

At this question, Peter frowned, staring intently at the flute in his hands. After a few moments, he shook his head, sighing exasperatedly.

"I don't know," he said, slouching forward and sinking his hands into his hair, "I can't remember." His forehead seemed to shine with a new sheen of sweat, and even in the warm glare of the fire he seemed unnaturally pale.

"Peter, you don't look so good," Curly said concernedly, reaching out a hand toward his shoulder.

"I'm fine," Peter snapped, abruptly pulling himself to his feet and walking toward the tree line. Curly's hand remained suspended for a few seconds longer, before he slowly lowered it to his lap, his expression hurt and confused.

Rumplestiltskin slowly followed Peter as he walked further away from the group, the need to ensure his son was all right overpowering his fear of what he might discover about the state of the boy's memories.  Peter came to an immediate halt just within the shadows of the trees, his arms folded tightly across his chest.  His shoulders were tense, and he stood stock still as though suddenly faced with a dangerous predator. Slowly, in the manner of someone approaching a wild sparrow that might flee at any moment, Rumplestiltskin walked to stand beside him.  The man opened his mouth to speak, but before any words could escape him, Peter spoke.

"It looks even bigger now," he said in a low, haunted voice, "And hungry. I can see all its teeth from here..."

The boy's words sent a freezing trickle of fear down Rumplestiltskin's spine, and he found himself stepping closer as he asked, "What are you talking about, B—Peter?"

"The crocodile," Peter answered in a whisper, and the simple response magnified Rumplestiltskin anxiety tenfold. Hook had mentioned the same creature aboard the Jolly Roger, and like then, Rumplestiltskin could not see the beast at all.

"I think it's coming for me now," the boy said, his face expressionless as his eyes focused on something in the distance.  Rumplestiltskin craned his neck to see if he could make out the reptile's shape in the darkness, but only the winding shadows of the vines met his gaze.

"Son, I don't see—" Rumplestiltskin began, pausing when the rustle of footsteps overturning leaves suddenly sounded behind them.  

He turned to see Belle slowly approaching the tree line, her forehead lined with worry and her hands absentmindedly fidgeting with the sleeves of her green jacket.  She paused a few steps away, her eyes meeting Rumplestiltskin's as she softly asked, "Is—is everything all right?"

They both looked at Peter, who remained facing the dark forest, his gaze still transfixed on a point in the distance. When Belle's dainty hand came to rest on the boy's shoulder, he started, whirling about to face her as though he had not heard her approach at all. He stared at her, his brow furrowing in confusion as she brought her hand to his cheek and then his forehead, frowning slightly.

"You feel feverish, Peter," Belle murmured, smoothing back the hair from his forehead. The sight of Belle caring for his son, and the way the boy seemed to welcome her affection, dissipated some of the fear that was weighing on Rumplestiltskin's heart in that moment.

"I'm all right," Peter responded quietly, raising a hand to rub at the tense muscles of his neck. "I just...need to walk—no," he paused suddenly, gazing intensely up at the tree canopy, "I need to fly."

He bent his knees, preparing to leap into the air and let the wind currents carry his troubles far away.

"I don't think that's best right now," Rumplestiltskin said quickly, pausing the boy's movements. Peter stared at him, quirking an eyebrow in bewilderment at the man's concern.

"Why not?"

Rumplestiltskin opened and closed his mouth, struggling to decide how to respond. Again he felt an overwhelming urge to tell his son the truth, that he was remembering and the magic of flight would likely only slow the process. However, the daunting thought that the boy's memories would be accompanied by even more pain prevented Rumplestiltskin from doing so. He nearly released a sigh of relief when Belle answered Peter instead; she did not yet know what Aibreann had told him about the relationship between flying and Baelfire's memory loss, but she understood magic played a significant role.

"Because you're not feeling well," she said calmly, glancing quickly at Rumplestiltskin for support, "And it's been a very trying day. Please, can you wait until morning?"

Peter looked very ready to refuse, but something in Belle and Rumplestiltskin's caring expressions quieted his rebellious thoughts. Looking from one adult to the other and sighing softly, he stated somewhat glumly, "All right."

Belle and Rumplestiltskin looked at each other, their gazes filled with abject relief. Before another word could be said, however, the proud voice of Slightly echoed forth.

"I think Peter just got grounded," the plump boy announced brashly from his seat on the nearest log, his lips smirking and eyebrows raised in surprise.

"I did not," Peter responded indignantly, scowling at him. "Did I?" He asked timidly, returning his attention to the two adults standing before him.

"Well," Rumplestiltskin said, grimacing slightly, "Not exactly..."

Peter's shoulders slumped at the man's words, his eyes focusing on his feet.

"It's only until the morning, darling," Belle reminded soothingly, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"We'll see how you're feeling then, all right?" Rumplestiltskin asked gently, placing his hand on his son's other shoulder.

Peter nodded, inhaling deeply in disappointment before turning and walking back to the fire pit.  Belle made to follow him, but before she could take more than one step, Rumplestiltskin wrapped a hand gently about her wrist, keeping her close.

"I'm sorry," he murmured as she turned to face him, sincere regret laced in every syllable, "About what I said earlier. Truly, Belle, I didn't mean it. I—"

She placed her fingertips softly against his lips, the corners of her own lifting in a small smile. "I'm sorry, too, Rum. I shouldn't have pressured you," she whispered.

Rumplestiltskin removed her hand from his lips, enfolding it in one of his own and pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

"You are my light, Belle," he whispered against her skin, watching as a pretty blush painted her cheeks. Her smile widened and she entwined their fingers, her eyes shining in the yellow firelight.

"Come on, let's get back to the fire," she said softly, turning toward the clearing and lightly tugging their joined hands.

Rumplestiltskin followed, not realizing just how cold he was until his body was once more embraced by the warmth of the flames.  The boys were chatting eagerly about something when the two adults rejoined them. Not a moment after Belle seated herself on a log, Tootles bounded over to her, his sandy curls bouncing with every step.

"Will you tell us another story, Mother?" He asked excitedly, folding his hands together and staring up at her with his wide, green eyes. "Please?"

The tiny boy's request immediately caught the attention of the other boys, including Peter, whose lips stretched into a wide grin despite his sickly pallor. They all turned to face her, scooting closer on their logs.

Belle laughed gently at their antics, and when she glanced at Rumplestiltskin he could see the battle was lost before it had even begun. 

"Well..." she began, laughing again when the boys continued to plead for a story. Rumplestiltskin watched as Peter's grin only broadened, his still-glassy eyes brightening with interest. It was then that an idea, terrifying and brilliant all at once, blossomed in Rumplestiltskin's mind.

"Belle," Rumplestiltskin interrupted suddenly, his heart sprinting beneath his ribs. "Could I—Would you mind if I told one?" He asked quietly, fighting the urge to withdraw the question and dismiss the idea altogether. 

Belle's eyebrows shot up at his question, her slightly parted lips stretching into a surprised smile as she shook her head enthusiastically. "Not at all," she said somewhat breathily, "Please do."

The six boys seated in the clearing turned to face him, curiosity glinting in their eyes as they waited for the foreign man to speak. It was a leap of faith, much like the one he had failed to take when his son begged him to enter the swirling vortex and give them a fresh start.

With a quick glance in Peter’s direction, and a deep, steadying breath, Rumplestiltskin opened his mouth.  He would tell them a story, one that entailed betrayal and tragedy beyond anything their innocent minds could imagine.

His own.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all are enjoying the marathon of chapters this week! :) I won't be updating for at least a week, due to my traveling, so I figured I'd make it up to you this way. If you like this story, please share it with others!
> 
> The Prologue for this story is already produced into audiobook, and I'm working really hard on the rest! To check that out (or any of my other fan-made audiobooks), click [HERE](https://www.youtube.com/user/Promise171/featured) and SUBSRIBE for updates! 
> 
> ~ Warrior717


	29. Chapter 29

"Long ago, in a land far different from this one, there was a man, a spinner," Rumplestiltskin hesitantly began his tale, swallowing back his nerves as all eyes fixated on him, "He was cowardly, afraid of the past just as much as the future, especially when it concerned his beloved son."

Rumplestiltskin saw recognition flicker in Belle's turquoise eyes, and her gaze became so tender and understanding it almost stole his breath away. Peter, on the other hand, merely looked as politely interested as the other boys.

"In this land, there were creatures called ogres: monstrous beasts who could take out a dozen men with a single swipe of their clubs," he paused as several of the boys scooted closer in excitement and Belle shuddered slightly, before persisting.

"Some kingdoms, including the one in which the spinner and his son lived, were at war with the ogres. It was suicide," he claimed fervently, curling the fingers of one hand into a fist, "Going up against those beasts. Many men died, and it wasn’t long before the generals decided to lower the draft age," his hands shook as he recalled the day his son told him they would be coming for him, "To fourteen."

The youngest of the boys gasped, but it was Peter's reaction that truly captured Rumplestiltskin's attention: the boy turned sharply to fully face him, his brow creasing in deep concentration. Trepidation and anticipation warring for dominance within him, Rumplestiltskin forced himself to continue his story.

"The spinner's son would turn fourteen in three days," he said, coughing to clear his throat. "Not wanting to lose the one person he loved most, the cowardly man decided to do what he did best: run. And so they did. But they got no farther than the village border."

The Lost Boys stared eagerly up at him, their eyes wide at the suspense, but Rumplestiltskin barely registered them, his mind vividly conjuring the memory that matched the tale.

"The conscription officers caught them," he murmured, recalling the men's cruel, sneering faces, "They humiliated the spinner, and promised to steal away his son in two days' time."

Rumplestiltskin felt a wave of self-loathing well up in his chest at the memory of how he had kissed the soldier's boot, all remnants of his pride shattering right before the eyes of his son. He glanced at the boy now, and nearly started at what he saw in his eyes: not disgust, nor shame, but _sympathy_ , and perhaps a tough of anger at the soldiers in the story. The knowledge that even this version of his son would come to his defense provided Rumplestiltskin with enough strength to persevere with sharing his dreadful past.

"The spinner became desperate," he said, though the words felt like a serious understatement as he remembered the nigh crippling fear he had felt that night, "Trusting the words of a roadside beggar, he decided to seek out the power that would allow him to keep his son. You see, there was a...a creature of sorts with unparalleled magical prowess, who frightened and tormented all those around him. He was called the 'Dark One.'"

Rumplestiltskin inhaled deeply, the hope that he had felt at the "beggar's" words still lingered painfully in his mind, along with the enthusiastic promise he had made to Bae to use the magic for good. The Lost Boys traded excited glances at the introduction of a character with such an ominous title; Belle and Peter, however, quietly listened, their expressions grave.

"The spinner learned of a way to control him, and with his son's help managed to steal the object he needed to do so. But the Dark One," Rumplestiltskin momentarily clenched his jaw, fighting against his rage at the memory of the man's words, "The Dark One taunted him, provoked him, until at last the spinner...The spinner killed him, unwittingly gaining all of his power. He became the new Dark One."

Several of the children gasped, but Peter remained unmoving, save for the clenching of one fist at his side.  Rumplestiltskin repressed a shudder at the memory of how invasive it had felt when the dark magic entered his being and fused itself with his soul.

"At first, it was as though he had been born again, given a second chance. But then...he began to change. His thirst for power became unquenchable, and he did...terrible things."

"His son, who was all goodness and light, did not like the change. He wanted his true father back, not the monster he had become. The new Dark One still loved his son very much, but the only way to rid him of his power was to kill him. So, he made his son a deal: if the boy found a way to get rid of his father's dark powers, without killing him, the spinner would agree to do it."

A half-smile curved Rumplestiltskin's lips at the memory of the hope and determination that had shone in his son's gaze.

"And the brave boy did. He obtained a magical bean that would take them to a land without magic, where the spinner and his son could live a normal life, together."

Peter leaned forward, his elbows resting on his thighs. Rumplestiltskin watched him, momentarily spellbound as the boy's eyes narrowed in not only concentration, but something else he could not quite name...

"His son threw the bean on the ground, and immediately it opened a portal,” Rumplestiltskin tried to finish, nervously wetting his lips as apprehension began to stir uncomfortably in his stomach, “A swirling vortex of green light, so bright it was almost blinding. It was their only chance, the boy said, and he started pulling his father towards it.  But the spinner...he..."  Rumplestiltskin's voice fell silent as the memory of that fateful night, of his worst betrayal, overwhelmed him.

His eyes turned downward as he struggled to swallow past the lump forming in his throat.  He could hear the boys beginning to fidget in the silence that followed before a gentle hand rested on his shoulder.  A rueful grin tugged at his lips at the familiar pressure of Belle’s comforting touch.

"Why don't you tell them the rest of the story?"

Rumplestiltskin’s head shot up at Peter's voice, and the strain of rising anger just detectable within it. All eyes in the clearing stared at the boy as he slowly stood, his lips pressed together in a firm line.  His eyes met Rumplestiltskin's, and a jolt raced through the man at how dark his son's irises appeared in the dying firelight.

“Peter?” Nibs prompted timidly, eyebrows crinkling in confusion.

But the older boy’s gaze remained fixated on the man across the camp fire. He gave a sharp shake of his head, features hardening.  “Not Peter.”

Nibs released a nervous laugh, “What?”

“Baelfire…” Rumplestiltskin began tentatively, his voice hushed as though he feared anything louder would somehow shatter the hope he felt in that moment.

“You look different from the last time I saw you,” Baelfire observed flatly, neither protesting nor openly welcoming the returned use of his given name. He took a step forward.  “But you still have your powers."

Rumplestiltskin's stomach twisted in dread at the boy's words, which sounded more like a statement than a question, and the prospect of once more seeing disappointment in his son's eyes. Swallowing thickly and praying the boy would understand, he responded, "Y-yes, but Bae, I—"

"Of course you do,” Baelfire retorted caustically, folding his arms over his chest. “It's probably a spell you're using now." 

“I can expl—”

"Finish the story,” Baelfire interrupted coolly, his piercing gaze trained on Rumplestiltskin.  He jerked his head toward the rest of the group.  “Tell them what you did."

Belle's and the Lost Boys' gazes, which had been darting worriedly between the two, settled on Rumplestiltskin. The man’s face, etched with lines of grief and guilt, mirrored the heavy burden on his heart. He looked down, inhaling a shuddering breath to steal his resolve. Then slowly rising to his feet, he took a couple steps forward, gingerly lessening the distance between him and the boy.  Though the deep remorse he felt threatened to smother whatever optimism he might have had left, he never took his eyes off his son. He swallowed, willing his voice to obey.

“I broke our deal.”

Whispers suddenly emanated from the boys and he heard Belle release a soft, empathetic sigh behind him. Baelfire held his stance, his eyes glinting with an intensity that compelled his father to continue.

“I let you go,” Rumplestiltskin murmured, his shoulders slumping dejectedly and voice betraying his pain.

The murmurs and whispers issuing from the boys died away, immersing the glade in a nigh tangible silence. Baelfire averted his gaze, but not before more hurt than Rumplestiltskin had ever seen him display before shone in his eyes.

Rumplestiltskin’s vision swam as his eyes filled with tears. He blinked back the moisture, fighting to keep his composure as he struggled to utter the words he had longed to say to his son all these years. Belle rose to her feet behind him, and a moment later Rumplestiltskin heard her command in a soft voice, "Let's go inside, boys."

“You don’t have to leave,” Baelfire insisted, pivoting to face the retreating group. He glanced at Rumplestiltskin, his gaze darkening with anger and resentment. “ _He_ does.”

“I’m not going anywhere," Rumplestiltskin insisted firmly, his gaze penetrating as it focused on his teenage son. Surprise flashed briefly across the boy's features at his father's assurance, before he schooled them back into a glare once more.

Belle's gaze traveled between the father and son, her forehead creasing in anxiety before a sudden calmness seemed to wash over her. Within her eyes blazed conviction, and with a deep, steady breath she returned her attention to the Lost Boys. She continued to usher them toward the tree house, quietly hushing them when they began to whisper amongst themselves.

“Why can’t we stay with Peter?” Tootles asked suddenly, straining to glance back at the pair. Belle placed a hand on his shoulder, smiling softly at him.

“Because, darling, they need to be alone right now,” she responded, reaching out a hand for him to take as they resumed walking to the base of their shelter.

Something in her tone must have warned them that the subject was not up for debate, for not a single one objected again as they followed her over to the staircase of vines. She brushed a hand against Rumplestiltskin's back as she passed him, glancing back with eyes full of encouragement. She smiled gently, somehow offering her love more reassurance than any words could have in that moment. Then she was gone, leaving Rumplestiltskin and his son some much-needed privacy.

Now that the two were alone, the camp fell into an uncomfortable silence. Baelfire, whose demeanor had not changed, now stared at the embers smoldering in the fire pit.  It took all of Rumplestiltskin's will to not give in to the abject fear he felt at the possibility of his son rejecting him just as Hook had done.  Ignoring his most basic and cowardly instincts, the man took a step forward, feeling as though that one slight movement was perhaps the most important of his life.

“There is…” Rumplestiltskin began, his voice hoarse with emotion, “There is no excuse for what I did to you, son.”

Baelfire shifted his feet, but he did not speak, the lethargically dancing flames of the fire reflecting in his eyes.

“You were right about me,” Rumplestiltskin proceeded, “I am a coward. Even acquiring power hasn’t changed that.”

He studied his son intently, gauging the boy’s response to his words.  Seeing none, he pushed forward carefully.

“That moment I let you go, I have regretted it every single day of my life. If I could go back to do things differently…” Rumplestiltskin sighed deeply, the centuries he had spent trying to rectify that unforgivable wrong weighing heavily on his heart, “I would.”

Rumplestiltskin’s throat began to constrict, making it difficult to speak. He wanted—no, _needed_ his son to understand. Swallowing back his grief, he took one step closer to the boy.

“Bae, I am _truly_ sorr—” his voice broke as a sob threatened to escape him.   

The boy at last raised his eyes to meet Rumplestiltskin’s, his expression unreadable as he searched his father’s gaze for a moment.  Before the older man could discern what lay in their depths, the boy turned from him, trudging away from the campfire. Rumplestiltskin followed.

“I never stopped looking for you,” he said urgently.

Baelfire stopped, his back still turned to his father. Rumplestiltskin watched as the boy sighed and shook his head disbelievingly.

“You certainly took your time, then,” he whispered, his voice shaking with barely contained anger, “didn’t you?”

"Bae," Rumplestiltskin sighed, passing a hand over his forehead as he tried to determine how to explain the _centuries_ he spent acquiring enough magic to create the most powerful curse the realms had ever suffered, just to find his son.

“What is it that you want?” Baelfire asked abruptly, turning to face him with a hint of annoyance distinguishable within his icy glare. 

“Your forgiveness,” Rumplestiltskin answered quietly, flinching when the boy scoffed in disbelief. “I want my son.”

Although Baelfire remained silent, something in his demeanor shifted slightly, his features softening the tiniest amount. The change gave Rumplestiltskin a minute sense of relief and he stepped closer to the boy, placing his hands on his shoulders.

“I want you to come home with me,” the man murmured, gazing intently into his son's dark eyes.

Baelfire regarded him wordlessly for a long moment, before smirking incredulously and shaking his head. “I _am_ home."

“Please, Bae,” Rumplestiltskin whispered, lightly squeezing his son’s shoulders.

The boy opened his mouth to respond, but before the words could leave him he grimaced, pressing a hand to the center of his chest. He swayed slightly on his feet, his eyes fighting to focus on the ground before him.

“What is it, son?” Rumplestiltskin asked, his brow creasing as he watched the boy momentarily struggle to catch his breath.

Baelfire remained silent, staring at the ground a moment longer before raising his gaze and shaking his head. “It’s nothing,” he dismissed, shrugging off his father's grip and stepping back.  Rumplestiltskin advanced toward him, opening his mouth to protest, but Baelfire held out a hand to stop him.

“I’m not leaving Neverland,” the boy added firmly.

Closing his eyes, Rumplestiltskin released an exasperated sigh. “You can’t stay here, son,” he insisted fervently.

“Why can’t I?” Baelfire challenged, his voice rising, “I don’t need a father!”

The boy stepped closer then, hastily closing the gap between them and staring unblinkingly into the man’s eyes.

“And I don’t need _you_.”  

Rumplestiltskin winced as the words pierced him, and the absence of warmth in his son's gaze only amplified his pain.

“You don’t mean that,” he whispered, reaching out to clasp his son's shoulder again.

“I’ve managed this long without you, haven’t I?” Baelfire demanded, his voice nearly a shout as he jerked his shoulder out of his father's reach.

Rumplestiltskin let his hand fall to his side, his gaze downcast as the reality of the boy's statement turned whatever hope he had left to shame. Although Baelfire appeared no older than he had the night he had disappeared through the vortex, he had lived for _centuries_ without his father's guidance.

“You know it doesn’t even matter.” The boy dismissed sharply, throwing his arms out to the side. “You wasted your time even coming here," he finished harshly, turning and striding toward the tree line.

Something within Rumplestiltskin snapped in that moment, and he suddenly grasped the boy’s wrist, which bared the silver bracelet he had crafted for him long ago. Baelfire's steps faltered and he turned to face the man, his features etched with unequivocal defiance.

“Remember this?” Rumplestiltskin asked sharply, his gaze briefly settling on the bracelet that glittered in the red hue cast by the dying embers. Baelfire tried to pull away, refusing to look his father in the eyes, but Rumplestiltskin held on firmly.  

“You told me you never needed gold because you had me,” Rumplestiltskin said desperately, shaking the boy’s wrist in emphasis, “Can't you remember that?"

"I don't want to remember!" Baelfire yelled back, jerking his hand away with enough force to make Rumplestiltskin stumble slightly.

“I can’t even trust you!” The boy continued, his voice echoing in the still glade, “Why should I listen to you?!”

“Because if you don’t, you will become no better than the pirate you have fought all these years!”

Baelfire stepped back, and Rumplestiltskin felt an instant surge of regret as his son stared at him, horrified.

“What did you say?” The boy whispered in disbelief, his eyes glaring dangerously into his father’s.

“Son—" Rumplestiltskin began tentatively, moving to approach the boy.

“How could you think I would _ever_ be anything like him?” Baelfire interjected sharply, his cheeks flushing with anger.

“Bae, I didn’t mean—”

“You know what he’s done!” The boy interrupted furiously, his voice cracking with the strain.

“I know what you could be capable of!” Rumplestiltskin yelled back, his eyes desperately pleading for his son to listen.

Baelfire winced as though he had been struck, quickly averting his gaze. Rumplestiltskin closed his eyes, inhaling deeply as he realized the full meaning behind his words. Silence passed between them, and he dreaded the pain he would undoubtedly see once more in his son's eyes.  

“You _know_ what he did to my friend,” Baelfire spoke quietly after a long moment, his voice hoarse with emotion, “And you would still say that —" His throat constricted, choking off his words and causing Rumplestiltskin's eyes to snap open.

An overwhelming wave of grief threatened to drown the man as he watched his son’s eyes slowly fill with tears. Having not witnessed his boy cry since he was a babe, Rumplestiltskin felt more powerless than he ever had, looking on in stunned silence.  His own throat constricted painfully as he wished beyond anything that he could do something to erase his son's pain.

Without even a single tear falling from his eyes, Baelfire blinked several times, drawing in a tremulous breath as he obviously fought to regain his composure. A moment later, something changed in the boy, and Rumplestiltskin might have missed if he had not seen it before: a wall, the one his son always lifted in his most vulnerable moments, so that he could conceal his own suffering and continue to be his father's greatest source of strength. It pained Rumplestiltskin to an immeasurable degree to know that the boy hoisted it now not to inspire his father, but to protect himself from even more hurt by his hands.

After casting one more heated glare in Rumplestiltskin's direction **,** he turned about and began briskly walking toward the edge of the clearing. Rumplestiltskin quickly followed, begging in a hoarse voice, "Son, please."

The boy continued walking, each step more resolute than the last.  Rumplestiltskin reached out a hand, grasping his son’s forearm and halting his retreat.

"Don't leave," he pleaded quietly.

"Is that an order?" Baelfire asked spitefully **,** his eyebrows raised in incredulity and he pulled his arm from the man's grasp.

"No," Rumplestiltskin murmured, tears once again prickling the corners of his eyes, "It's a request."

Baelfire turned toward the forest again, and Rumplestiltskin watched as his son's shoulders rose with several deep breaths.

“Instead of _trying_ to be a father, why don't you just do what you're actually good at," The boy demanded bitterly, glancing over his shoulder at the man with eyes nearly as black as the sky, “Let me go.”

Without another word, Baelfire bent his knees, his ashen face turned to the starless sky above.

"Bae, stop—" Rumplestiltskin implored, but the boy leapt into the air regardless, soaring up through the tree canopy and disappearing in the night sky. Only the dejected man and the gently swinging vines of the towering willows occupied the clearing now.

Rumplestiltskin gritted his teeth against a sudden rush of rage, his eyes settling on a nearby log. The rage crested almost painfully, and he launched his leg forward to kick the wood. The image of his son's youthful and broken face suddenly surfaced before his eyes, and he immediately stilled, forcing the wave of anger to ebb.

He took several deep breaths, running a hand through his hair and turning his gaze once more toward the sky. He scanned the starless heavens, searching for any trace of his boy. He found none, his eyes focusing instead on a black mass of clouds billowing on the horizon.  They seemed to expand by the second, and as he watched a jagged thread of lightning flashed from one to the other.  He could just detect the faintest rumble of thunder, and the sound filled Rumplestiltskin with an inexplicable sense of dread.

A storm was approaching, in more ways than one.

 


	30. Chapter 30

The shapes of the willows below whipped past, their shadows blurring together into one vast ocean of darkness beneath the flying boy. The cold wind whistled past Baelfire's ears and chilled his clammy forehead as he soared farther and farther away from the clearing and the man it pained him to call father.  His blood pounded in his ears, making his head throb as he angrily propelled himself toward the coastline.  An occasional flash of violet lightning illuminated mountains of clouds looming on the horizon, but the boy paid them no mind.

Baelfire could just glimpse the white water of the waves crashing along the shore in the distance, when his balance suddenly wavered. He stumbled, dropping several feet as the world below him tilted sharply. Clenching his teeth, the boy recruited all of his willpower to stay afloat, frantically shaking his head against the vertigo that gripped him.

His disorientation did not relent, and in the next moment he was plummeting toward the earth, his shock too great to allow a single cry to escape.  The tree branches caught at his tunic, their leaf-strewn arms attempting to soften his fall as he careened downward. Finally, with a grunt **,** Baelfire landed on the forest floor, hissing at the shooting pain in joints. His chest heaved as the dizzy spell suddenly vanished, leaving the boy trembling and unnerved on a bed of leaves and twigs. 

With a relieved but shaky sigh, Baelfire sat back on his heels, rubbing his wrists and knees, which still ached from the impact.  His heart thudded wildly in his chest and he placed a hand above it, his brow furrowing when he realized the beats seemed off, as though there was a stuttering pause between each one.  There was no shooting pain as there had been earlier at the camp during the argument, but the faltering thuds unnerved him nonetheless.

Anxiety increasing the tension between his shoulders, Baelfire considered returning to the Drey. However, the idea only catapulted the memory of his father's words to the forefront of his mind, and with a scowl the boy hauled himself to his feet. Without another glance in the Drey's direction, he bent his knees and leapt into the air one more.

Only this time the air did not welcome him, and instead of flying Baelfire merely fell back to the forest floor, stumbling to stay on his feet. He closed his eyes, focusing with all his might to find a happy memory.

But none seemed to come to him. His anger from his argument with his father still smoldered hotly in his chest, and it seemed no matter how hard he tried, it would not relent enough for happiness to gain the upper hand. Of course, his father took this joy away from him as well, he thought furiously.

With a frustrated groan, Baelfire kicked at a branch on the forest floor, before running a hand through his slightly damp hair. He briefly wondered if Belle was right, if he did have a fever, with how clammy and hot the flesh of his forehead felt.  However, that thought, too, was quickly eclipsed by his anguish at his father's return, and without further delay he began walking toward the beach.

The sigh of the waves sliding along the sand coast met his ears, and through all his hurt he managed to feel an ounce of gratitude for having managed to fly at least within easy walking distance to his favorite location in Neverland.  For the first time since he could remember, he set off on foot.

As the boy strode along the weathered path, the vines and low-growing shrubs curved out of the way, and he could not help but feel that they did so not to help him, but because they were somehow... _afraid_ of him.  The thought filled him with a deep sense of remorse as though he had lost the confidence of a dear friend.  He frowned, his steps slowing as he watched yet another stone tumble out of his way.

Only a few more minutes passed before he glimpsed the narrow break in the tree line and the faint glow of the crashing waves beyond it.  His gait quickened as he thought of the comfort the dock would bring; perhaps he might even be able to fly there, as it was the exact location where he first leapt into the air and rode the wind.

He stepped through the break in the shrubbery and onto the beach, his steps quickly transforming into a sprint as his gaze landed on the low-lying dock.  The swift movements tired him faster than usual, but he pressed on until he reached the very end of the pier.  His chest heaved as he glanced around, his excited smile waning as the view of the murky water and the starless sky provided no reassurance.  Instead of the pleasant memories of his first flight, only the chilling memory of Hook's namesake pressing against his throat greeted the boy.

It seemed this happiness, too, had been taken from him.

Baelfire gripped his hair with a hand, a rush of white-hot anger almost making his head swim. He wished his father had never come here. He had been free, unburdened by painful memories of broken promises. He'd been lost, yes, but not abandoned, not so far as he knew. And now...Now every other thought was of his father's face the moment he let him fall through the vortex, the moment he chose everything _but_ his son.

A faint glimmer at his wrist caught the boy's attention: his silver bracelet, the one his father had spun from straw and given to him. Recalling his father's harsh words— _You will become no better than the pirate you have fought all these years!_ —Baelfire grit his teeth, ripping the bracelet from his wrist with a grunt.

He did not know which hurt worse: being compared to his worst enemy, or the fact that it was his own father who drew the comparison.  And it was all so he could frighten his son into giving him the second chance he did not deserve.

Baelfire glanced over his shoulder at the forest, imagining his father back at the clearing, undoubtedly contriving his next attempt to beguile his son into unmerited forgiveness.

_I know what you could be capable of!_

Baelfire's fist tightened almost painfully around the bracelet, the chain links biting into the flesh of his palm. How could his very own father say such a thing? He would never maim and murder like Hook had—

The image of a bejeweled hand being ruthlessly severed from its arm flashed in the boy's mind, along with a distant echo of the pirate captain's pained shout. With a twisting sense of dread he recalled how it had been _his_ sword that had inflicted the wound.

"It's not the same," he murmured, frowning as he recalled his triumphant cry when the pirate had retreated to his ship, away from the Lost Boys.  He had merely been protecting his friends; it was always Hook who attacked first.

_Except that one day_ , his mind seemed to hiss tauntingly, projecting the memory of himself and the Lost Boys sneaking aboard Hook's ship. Baelfire closed his eyes, chest heaving as he pictured his memory self leading them to the captain's quarters and stealing some of the finery, only to be ambushed when they returned to the deck. The ensuing fight had been in the boys' favor, with them easily escaping the Jolly Roger.

All except Scout.

The memory seemed to shift then, and instead of viewing the horrid scene from where he had been hovering above, Baelfire was on the deck. Murder roiled in his heart as he approached Hook in the memory, his arm raised to deal a fatal blow. He swung, a cold laugh escaping his lips as the weapon pierced his victim’s chest, sending turrets of blood down the surrounding fabric.

A satisfied smirk twisting his lips, Baelfire looked up.

A horrified cry escaped the boy's throat as his mind showed him not Hook's face, but Scout's, pale and wide-eyed at the point of his tragic death. 

Baelfire's eyes sprung open, frantically darting to his left hand.

"No!" He shouted, his heart sprinting in his chest, for the bracelet did not dangled from a closed fist, but the lethal groove of a polished, silver hook.

_We're more alike than you may think._

Releasing another cry, the boy shook his hand and screwed his eyes shut, heart stuttering in his chest. After several deep breaths, he hesitantly opened them.

The hook was gone. Only his trembling fist and the ends of the bracelet peeking out from within it remained.  

"I'll never be like him," Baelfire grated out loud, staring down at the piece of jewelry, "And I don't need _you_."

With another grunt, he threw the bracelet out over the water with all of his might, watching with dark satisfaction as it broke the surface and disappeared in the murky depths.  He stared a moment longer at the place where it had sunk, before slowly lowering himself to sit on the dock.  Sighing heavily, he leaned his elbows on his knees, placing his head wearily in his hands. Although several minutes had passed since he had ceased running, his heart still pounded against his ribs, and he could not seem to comfortably catch his breath.

In the span of less than an hour, Baelfire felt he had lost everything he had come to love about Neverland. He found it difficult to swallow as he thought of the Lost Boys, how they would undoubtedly think him a liar with a coward for a father. They probably lost their faith in him, just like the island apparently had.  The notion filled him with such a wrenching sense of grief, he thought he might crumble under its crushing weight.

More than grief, however, the boy felt rage; hotter and more terrifying in its intensity than the hate that blazed in Hook's eyes during their duels.  His father, the coward who hid behind the violet veil of magic, had found him, wanted him back. How long would it be before history repeated itself and Baelfire was lost once more with only his pain for company?  His father still possessed his powers; he had not changed...he couldn't have...

Baelfire's fingers absentmindedly traced the thin slice on his neck; he winced as his fingertip brushed against a bit that had not yet scabbed over.  This morning had been the closest he had ever come to dying... But his father had stopped Hook from dealing the final blow, forcing his own fear aside **.**  He had _saved_ him.

The memory of his father's face in the moment before he collided with Hook stood out starkly in Baelfire's mind, and he could not repress a surge of pride.  He had been prepared to die, his eyes closed and the happy memory of flight at the front of his mind, but the sound of racing feet had abruptly caught his attention. Opening his eyes, he had glimpsed the man's expression practically shining with determination, and something else...something powerful and unshakeable.

_Courage_.

Baelfire's chest heaved at the revelation, and he could not restrain the slight smile tugging at his lips. At last the man had refused to let anything tear his son away again, including his own cowardice.  He could have run; it would have been the easy thing to do. But instead, he stayed; he _fought._  

All his life, he had watched his father cower at the slightest hint of danger. And in the final moments before they had been parted for centuries, he saw his father pull back his hand, settling it instead on the black hilt of his treasured power.

But today, his father had not only saved him, he had _chosen_ him.   

Mind reeling with the sudden onslaught of pride, Baelfire jumped to his feet, turning and preparing to sprint all the way back to the Drey, and his father. Even with the lingering sting of his father's harsh words could not overpower the boy's sudden, gripping desire to make things _right_ again, to give them a second chance. He needed to confront his father, to begin that long journey toward forgiveness. But before he could take the first step, he froze, panic seizing him.

Eyes wide, he whirled around, frantically scanning the dark water for any trace of the silver bracelet. He wanted it back. No, he _needed it,_ just as much as he needed his own father.

As though understanding the boy's desperate desire to find the bracelet, the curve of one of Neverland's moons rose above the horizon, casting a brilliant beam of light directly on the shore.  The moonlight shone so brightly, it penetrated the water all the way to the seafloor.  Baelfire leaned over the edge of the pier, barely containing a cry of joy when his eyes caught the faint flicker of light reflecting off of a silver surface.

His hands trembled with anticipation and intense perseverance as he pulled his sword from his palm frond belt, dropping it on the wooden planks before poising to dive into the water. Again, his movements froze.  Meters from the dock floated a massive dark shape, the ridges of its back as large as Baelfire's hand: the crocodile.  It shifted slightly, and he could just make out the shine of its lethal jowls as it lifted its reptilian head.

For a long moment Baelfire merely stared, transfixed as the crocodile's tail swerved left and right, like a sinister pendulum ticking away the last seconds of his life. He shuddered, fear tempting him to flee while he still had the chance.

No, Baelfire thought determinedly, locking his jaw, he would not flee. He would fight, just as his father had bravely done for him.

With a deep, steadying breath, the boy moved his eyes back to the site where the bracelet had submerged. Gaze fixated on the minute flash of silver, the boy leapt into the ocean.

The water was colder than it had ever been before, and he felt his muscles momentarily constrict at the drastic change. His passion to find his father's gift soon gained the upper hand, however, and he vigorously kicked himself forward, gaining momentum.

The pearly moonlight shone even brighter now, and even though the boy's vision was blurred by the seawater, he could easily distinguish the location of the bracelet, lodged within the crevasse of a reef. He swam closer, and although he had been underwater for a mere handful of seconds, he could hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears.  It grew only louder as he neared the glistening silver, each erratic thump echoing almost painfully around him.

The muscles in his limbs felt as though they might burst into flame, but the pain was nothing compared to the crushing sensation he felt in his chest.  The blood around his heart felt like wet clay, clogging every vein and artery until his heart seemed to choke around every individual beat.  Still, the boy's love for his father compelled him onward, his sluggish movements carrying him until he was a mere arm's length from the silver piece.

The bracelet was not the only silver artifact lodged within the coral; lying just below it, its lethal crook anchoring the bracelet in place, was the very instrument that had cut into the boy's neck that morning.

A stabbing pain gripped Baelfire's heart and he withdrew his hand, a rush of bubbles escaping his mouth as he released a muffled cry. He turned about, hoping desperately to return to the surface, but his limbs refused to obey as the space between his feeble heartbeats only grew longer and longer.

The boy's movements became sluggish until he could no longer move at all, the remainder of his air slipping through his lips. As his heart released one final, faint thud, the last thing he glimpsed through his drooping eyelids was the long shadow of the crocodile hungrily propelling itself toward him…

* * *

Rumplestiltskin gasped sharply as his eyes snapped open, frenetically scanning his surroundings.  He hurled himself forward, bracing his hands on his knees and blinking rapidly as he struggled to comprehend what he had just _seen_.  The rough, scratchy texture of tree bark rubbed his back through his blue shirt, informing him that he had somehow fallen against the wide base of the Lost Boys' tree.  His breaths left him in panicked gasps and he placed a hand against his chest as he tried to calm them.

"Rum? Rumpel!" He heard Belle's voice cry, followed by the sound of her feet hurriedly descending the tree house's stairs. A moment later she was kneeling beside him, one hand on his shoulder and the other gently pressed against his cheek.

"What happened? What's wrong?" She asked fretfully, her eyes scanning for any new injuries.  Rumplestiltskin could not answer her right away, terror choking his words as the image of his son's lifeless, half-lidded eyes flashed in his mind.

"Rum—"

"He wasn't breathing," Rumplestiltskin rasped, inhaling shakily as he strove to make sense of the vision.  Belle **'** s forehead creased in confusion, her lips curving into a frown as she asked, "Who wasn't breathing?"

Rumplestiltskin did not answer, having barely registered the question through his muddled and frenzied thoughts. Belle's gaze scanned the clearing, her eyes widening as she realized his son was nowhere to be found.

"Rum, where's Pete—Baelfire?"  

The sound of his son's name acted as a catalyst, and without a word Rumplestiltskin pulled himself to his feet, nearly knocking Belle aside with the swift motion.  She rose to her feet as well, her face growing pale as she anxiously waited for the man to speak.

"Belle," Rumplestiltskin gasped, his voice hoarse, "I think I saw—"

The sudden appearance of a scarlet orb descending through the tree canopy cut him off, and he and Belle watched apprehensively as the tiny fairy soared toward them.

"Where is Aibreann?" Ruadh asked hysterically, alighting on a low-hanging branch and fluttering her scarred wing.

"I—I don't know. We haven't seen her since she escorted Rum back—" Belle began to explain hurriedly, before Ruadh interrupted.  

"Something's wrong with him, with Peter," the crimson fairy exclaimed, her eyes widening, "I was returning from telling the Indians about H—Hook's death. I saw him flying, and he stumbled. He—he got up, and tried again, but…couldn't fly anymore! I've been searching all over for Aib—" 

"Where is he?" Rumplestiltskin asked urgently, his fear now amplified by his intense need to find the boy. But before the pixie could answer, another glowing sphere, this one bright orange, descended from the treetops.

"Ruadh, what's happened? I saw you fly here like you were trying to escape death itself!" Buidhe cried, floating over to the scarlet fairy.

"Where's Aibreann?" The hysterical fairy asked, reaching out to clutch Buidhe's hands.

"She still at the _Jolly Roger_ with Flannach; they're telling Hook's crew—"

"I need to talk to her. Something's wrong with—"   

"Where is my son?!" Rumplestiltskin shouted suddenly, startling both of the fairies into silence. Belle grasped his hand, her anxiety transforming into terror as she detected more fear in his eyes and tone than she had ever seen before.

"I—I saw him land in the forest, toward the south," Ruadh answered nervously, stepping closer to her tiny companion.

“What could be wrong with him?” Belle asked breathily, a strain of rising panic just detectable in her voice.

“I don’t know, Belle,” Rumplestiltkin answered hastily, “He’s seemed off since Hook…” His voice trailed off, brow furrowing as he passed a hand through his hair. He met Belle's gaze, watching as she frowned slightly before releasing a sudden gasp.

"Since Hook's death," she breathed, her blue eyes widening with the realization.

“Where was he headed?” Rumplestiltskin asked urgently, his gaze fixed on the two fairies perched above.

"I think I know," Belle cut in hurriedly, and Rumplestiltskin's eyes darted to meet hers. "The dock; he said it was his favorite place on the island. It's where he learned to fly," she explained rapidly, turning and pulling Rumplestiltskin's hand as she headed toward the tree line.

"We have to find him," Rumplestiltskin said desperately, quickening his pace, "I saw—In my vision—Belle, he was _dying_." 

The vines of the willows cast winding shadows along the ground as threads of lightning flashed directly above. Their fearful gazes met for one brief moment before they broke into a run, launching themselves into the forest. The staccato sound of their footsteps echoed around them, and though they both _refused_ to believe they could be too late, Rumplestiltskin could not ignore the dreadful vision still looming in his mind, or the moment that his son’s heart had ceased…to beat.

 


	31. Chapter 31

Belle and Rumplestiltskin sprinted through Neverland's forest, their chests heaving and feet pounding heavily on the nearly even ground spreading before them. Beams of brilliant moonlight filtered through the tree canopy, illuminating the trail before them.  Protruding roots flattened and upended stones rolled out of their path; vines withdrew rapidly and bushes jumped to the side. Amidst all the anxiety roiling within him, Rumplestiltskin felt a quick surge of gratitude at the island's attempts to help them in their efforts to save its favorite inhabitant.

When they reached a large boulder with a small waterfall trickling down its side, Belle grabbed Rumplestiltskin's hand and pulled him along the path to the left.

"This way," she panted, leading them toward a narrow, circular gap in the heavy brush along the tree line.  Rumplestiltskin could hear the distant sound of waves crashing against the shoreline.

They scrambled through the opening, both of them freezing in place as their eyes scanned the site before them for any sign of Baelfire.

The dark water of the ocean crashed and slid along the milky shore, glittering brilliantly in the ivory light of Neverland's two moons.  Thick storm clouds billowed on the horizon, their dark silhouettes framed by the deep crimson haze of Neverland's sun, fighting to rise above the horizon and banish the terrible night.  Low rumbles of thunder echoed in time with the push and pull of the tide as the clouds neared the island.  A lone pier protruded several meters into the sea, its wooden surface slick from the foam and mist of the waves.

Releasing Rumplestiltskin's hand, Belle ran toward the dock, Rumplestiltskin following closely behind.  Sand flew into the air under the power of their strides.  They nearly slipped as their feet came into contact with the damp wood, taking a moment to regain their balance before pressing onward.

"Baelfire!" Rumplestiltskin called out, his hands cupped around his mouth.

Belle turned around several times, her eyes searching for any sign of the boy she had come to love as her own son.  Just as Rumplestiltskin turned to ask her if she had perhaps been mistaken, Belle gasped sharply.

She ran toward the end of the pier, her hair flying wildly in the increasing wind.  Rumplestiltskin followed, nearly colliding with her back when she skidded to a precarious stop at the edge.  Bending down, she retrieved something from its surface.  She turned toward Rumplestiltskin, the color draining from her face.  In her hands was Baelfire's sword.

Hands shaking, Belle passed him the weapon.  Rumplestiltskin clutched it, glancing at it before turning his gaze to where she had found it.

"You don't think he—he's," Belle stuttered, staring into the churning water. She felt sudden movement beside her, and turned to see Rumplestiltskin hastily removing his dagger and shoes, dropping them and Baelfire's sword on the dock.   

Belle started to remove her own shoes as Rumplestiltskin approached the edge of the dock.

"No, stay here," he commanded, and before Belle could even think to utter a protest, he dove into the sea.

The cold water embraced Rumplestiltskin with the tenderness of a thousand blades, but its intensity was eclipsed by the sheer terror welling in his chest.

The salty water burned his eyes as he desperately scanned the murky depths for any sign of movement.  His dive had disturbed the sand on the ocean floor; plumes of it swelled around him, making it even more difficult to see.  A flash of light a few meters away caught his attention, and he propelled himself in its direction. 

Rumplestitlskin could hardly believe it when the links of a thin silver chain came into view, reflecting the pearly moonlight from its solitary seat within the shallow crevasse of a reef: It was his son’s bracelet

But the bracelet was not alone in hollow; it was coiled around the crook of Hook's silver namesake, which had somehow tipped in the current and now anchored the piece of jewelry in place.  The image sent a jolt of recognition through Rumplestiltskin: twice before he had _seen_ this most unnerving arrangement **,** and in both circumstances his son's heart had stopped beating all together.

A surge of hot adrenaline coursed through Rumplestiltskin's veins as he realized the boy must be nearby.  His gaze darted about madly, scanning the rocks, the reefs, the ripples in the sandy floor, until finally, with a terror that momentarily paralyzed his whole being, it landed on the bluish, unmoving form of his teenage son.

Baelfire hovered over the floor of the ocean, his mouth slightly agape and eyes half-open, staring lifelessly ahead.

Relying on strength he did not know he had, Rumplestiltskin curled his arms around his son's torso and heaved him upright.  Black blotches clouded his vision as he kicked off the sea floor and swam for the surface.

Although his lungs rejoiced at the fresh gulps of air, Rumplestiltskin felt no relief as he frantically towed his son's body back to shore.  He heard Belle cry out and vaguely registered the sound of splashing as she made her way to them, but could not tear his gaze away from the pale, lifeless boy he held in his arms.

"Oh, no... please, _no_..." Belle's voice shook as she grabbed the boy's ankles and helped Rumplestiltskin haul him back to dry land. 

They laid Baelfire's pale body on the sand, and a sort of calm desperation seized the boy's father as he looked and felt for any signs of life.  Hands trembling, Belle frenetically brushed the damp curls from Baelfire's forehead and rubbed his arms, trying to return even a degree of warmth to the bluish limbs.  Her whole body seemed to tremble as she watched, terrified, as Rumplestiltskin brought his ear close to the boy's nose and mouth.  A flash of something crossed the man's features, twisting them in a way that magnified Belle's panic tenfold.

"Is he—he's not—"  

"Belle, I need you to watch carefully," Rumplestiltskin interrupted, crouching low over his son's face. 

Hearing her name seemed to act as both a tonic for nerves and a stimulant; Belle quieted her gasping breaths and watched closely as Rumplestiltskin tilted his son's head back, pinched his nose, and then covering the boy's mouth with his own, blew two steady breaths into his lungs.  His son's chest rose with each given breath, and rattled quietly, frighteningly as the air slipped through his cold, bluish lips.

Rumplestiltskin's hands shook as he reached for Belle's arm and pulled her closer.

"I need you to do that when I tell you to, do you understand?"

Belle nodded, the desperation in Rumplestiltskin's voice frightening her beyond speech, and curled in closer to Baelfire's face.

Rumplestiltskin moved so that he was kneeling beside his son.  He overlapped his hands, lacing them together, and placed them at the center of the boy's chest.

Elbows locked, Rumplestiltskin pressed down hard. With a steadying breath, he rapidly repeated the motion, his own heart clenching as he felt his son's chest sink a couple inches with each compression. He knew that the force he was using was necessary, but it terrified him to think his motions were the only thing allowing his boys' heart to beat at all.

"One, two, three, four..." Rumplestiltskin murmured with each shove of his hands, ignoring the twinge of pain radiating from his recently stitched arm wound.  His thoughts whirled in his head, trying desperately to remember if it was twenty or thirty compressions per cycle.  He decided on thirty.

"Now," He panted toward Belle, who copied his earlier movements and pressed her mouth over the boy's to breathe for him. 

"Again."

Belle repeated the action.  A false sense of relief permeated Rumplestiltskin each time he felt his son's chest rise and fall beneath his hands, but it was quelled instantly when the boy did not respond on his own.

Rumplestiltskin resumed compressions. He counted silently, distress threatening to consume him as his son's head bobbed lifelessly with every push of his hands.  Baelfire’s half-lidded eyes stared up at him, and Rumplestiltskin wondered wildly if his son could see anything through them. His blood ran like ice in his veins as he realized their depths appeared just as empty as Hook’s had been.

Again he directed Belle to breathe for his son.  Baelfire remained still.  

"Come on, boy."  He quickened his pace, his breaths coming out in gasps.  Hot tears rolled down Belle's cheeks. "Breathe, Bae!" He felt a rib crack beneath his palm.

"Rum, I don't think—"

He cut Belle off with another harsh command to breathe.  It took all her strength to force the air past the lump in her throat.

The wind increased its intensity, wailing around them as though weeping, but no rain fell. Rumplestiltskin pressed two fingers against the boy's neck, fear gripping his heart as still no pulse thrummed beneath his fingertips.

"Please, son—" His voice broke.  His arms trembled as he placed them again over Baelfire's unmoving chest, pressing down even harder in hopes that it might encourage his son's heart to beat on its own.

"Rumplestil—"

"No!"

"It's not working!" Belle shrieked as they heard another rib crack.

Rumplestiltskin ignored her, pushing her aside so he could deliver the two breaths himself. After the first breath, Rumplestiltskin laid his forehead against his son’s. His hand shook slightly as he clutched the center of Baelfire’s tunic.

" _Please_...” He whispered, hoping in some way his son could hear him. “Come back to me.”

Releasing his grasp, Rumplestiltskin tilted the boy’s head back and pinched his nose, pressing his mouth against Baelfire’s once more.

Sorrow unlike any she had ever experienced clenched tight about Belle's heart as she watched Rumplestiltskin return his hands to his son’s still chest, this time each compression punctuated by a deep sob from the boy's father.

And then it happened.  Hope welled so powerfully within Belle that she felt almost dizzy with relief at its warm presence.

"The magic," she breathed. 

Gasping, she reached over and clutched the sides of Rumplestiltskin's face, forcing him to meet her gaze. "You can save him, you can use the magic to save him!"

He stared at her, brow furrowed, eyes filled with uncertainty.

His magic was limited; once used, it could never be replaced. Rumplestiltskin closed his eyes.

If he used magic now, magic would be lost to him forever.

If he did _not_ use magic now, his son would be lost to him forever.

Rumplestiltskin opened his eyes.

"I'm not going to lose you again, Bae."

Belle sobbed in relief, moving back to give Rumplestiltskin more room.  He placed his hands over the boy’s chest, and then stilled.  The brief moment where he had summoned the magic during their earlier confrontation with Hook must have expended more than he anticipated; his supply had been limited before, but now he could feel it was positively dwindling.

"Rum..." Belle murmured, her brow creasing with confusion as she watched him intently.

He did not respond, instead desperately searching his thoughts for a way to utilize the power most efficiently.  With such a limited supply, he would need to exhibit caution, to ensure that every tendril of magic was put to the best use.

"We don't have much time!" Belle cried out urgently, her turquoise eyes reflecting the same panic Rumplestiltskin was fighting to keep at bay.

"I know that!" He snapped in response, striving to maintain his focus. "This has to be done right, Belle, he explained in a calm but fervent tone.” If it isn't, we won't get a second chance."

"What are you going to do?" She asked, her voice quaking and teetering on the edge of hysterics.

Rumplestiltskin stared down at his lifeless boy, swallowing thickly and inhaling several deep breaths.  He needed to get his son’s heart to beat once more.  The compressions had failed; it needed something stronger, more effective…

A blinding blade of lightning sliced the sky above, and an obscure symbol suddenly appeared in Rumplestiltskin's thoughts: a red, two-dimensional drawing of a heart with a lightning bolt at the center. He had seen it inscribed on a white box nailed to one of the walls of Storybrooke's town hall; a box, his cursed memories told him, contained a contraption that conducted electrical currents.

Looking up with eyes blazing with determination, Rumplestiltskin breathed, “I am going to shock his heart."

Alarm flashed across Belle’s features and she gasped, but said nothing, watching apprehensively as Rumplestiltskin moved his hands over his son’s torso. He clutched the center of Baelfire’s tunic, tearing it open with two swift jerks, and exposing the boy’s pale chest. He would aim brief bursts of magic directly into his son’s heart, in hopes of jolting it back to life.

His eyelids slid closed, and he drowned out the sounds of the crashing waves and the approaching thunder, focusing all of his attention on the miniscule store of energy buried within him.  He wrapped his willpower around it, yanking it from its sanctuary until it slid into the pads of his fingertips, encasing them in a violet glow.

He laid his hands on the center of his son’s sternum, overlapping them so that his fingers splayed precisely above the boy’s heart, his fingertips lightly pressing into the pale flesh.  Taking a deep, steadying breath, he forced a surge of energy through the tips of his fingers.  Baelfire's body jerked, and Rumplestiltskin flattened his palm against his chest, searching for a heartbeat.  He found none.

A loud rumble of thunder echoed around them as Rumplestiltskin flexed his fingers again, delivering another, stronger burst of magic into his son's heart.

Baelfire's body jerked more strongly, his back bowing slightly. Rumplestiltskin pressed his palm once more against the center of the boy’s chest.

"Come on, son," he murmured, his voice cracking, as he returned his fingertips to their previous position above Baelfire’s heart.  

Rumplestiltskin pressed down firmly this time, sending an even more powerful jolt into the boy. Fear and despair churned his stomach as his son’s body jerked sharply upward, and then fell back against the sand, unmoving.

The wind began to howl, whipping their hair about their heads and drowning out the gasping sobs Belle was trying to stifle with her hands.  Only a sliver of moonlight escaped the thick black clouds swirling ominously above them, and the scarlet haze of the rising sun bled along the entire horizon.

Shoulders heaving with rasping, exhausted breaths, Rumplestiltskin poised his hands to deliver yet another shock. But it did not come, and the violet aura surrounding his fingertips sputtered feebly, before vanishing altogether.  A strangled cry slipped past Rumplestiltskin's lips as he stared in horrified disbelief at his hands.

"What is it?" Belle asked fearfully in a thick, gasping voice.

"The magic...It can't be—" Rumplestiltskin murmured, his breath hitching as he shook his hand, desperate to see the aura return. "There has to be more!"  

His eyes met Belle's, utter desperation shining in their depths.  She stared back at him, tears rolling down her cheeks as she slowly shook her head.

"No," she choked around her sobs, "Rum..."

Panic roiled within him, threatening to paralyze both his mind and body.  Willing his panting breaths to slow, he closed his eyes once more, searching feverishly for even the slightest trace of magic within himself.  He gasped in uncontained relief upon finding a miniscule, yet powerful tendril waiting to be expended.

Knowing that it would only suffice for one final jolt to his son's heart, Rumplestiltskin summoned it to his hands with a strength he did not know he possessed. It slid like tar to the ends of his fingers, engulfing them once again in a vibrant purple glow.

He opened his eyes, squinting against the tears stinging at the corners. With a steadying breath, he pressed his fingertips once more against the boy's flesh....

"I need you, Bae," he whispered, relying on every ounce of his will to thrust the last of his magic through the ends of his fingers.  It surged through his fingertips with an intensity that nearly hurt, sinking deep into his son's cold chest.  A loud crack of thunder pierced the air around them as Baelfire arched high off the ground, his head falling back and mouth ajar. 

After a long moment, his back fell to the earth with a dull thud, his half-lidded eyes still staring lifelessly at the tumultuous heavens.

Rumplestiltskin‘s vision blurred as he stared intently at his unmoving son, begging him to show even the barest sign of life. 

Belle covered her face, her small form shaking as she wept.

"No...No, _please_ ," Rumplestiltskin gasped, blinking back the moisture in his eyes as he desperately felt his son's chest and neck for a pulse, his hands trembling.  He felt nothing.

Sobbing, he cupped his son's face, brushing a stray curl from his forehead.  White-capped waves thrashed against the shoreline.  The cold wind wailed around them as Rumplestiltskin stared into the vacant depths of his son’s eyes, silently pleading.

The boy's eyelids suddenly squeezed shut, then opened slightly.

Rumplestiltskin froze, gazing at his son's face, wondering if he had imagined it.  But then, Baelfire's eyes squinted again, and his chest rose, rattling lightly.

"That's it, son! Breathe," Rumplestiltskin encouraged, his hand lightly patting Baelfire's cheek.  Belle lowered her hands, her glistening eyes wide as she stared at Rumplestiltskin and his son.

Rumplestiltskin watched as the boy’s chest spasmed slightly, struggling to pull in air.

_“Breathe,”_ Rumplestiltskin urged again, his lips slowly forming a smile as the most beautiful sound he could hear at that moment reached his ears.

Opening his eyes fully, Baelfire inhaled a long, shuddering breath, his chest heaving as his body strived to pull in more air.  Then, a harsh, wheezing cough rattled his lungs.

With a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, Rumplestiltskin turned his son onto his side, patting his back. The boy coughed and sputtered, expelling water from his mouth.  Belle cried out in joyous relief, moving closer to support Baelfire's head with her hand.

They watched as the color gradually returned to Baelfire's face and limbs, his lips slowly turning to their normal, healthy tint. Eventually, the boy drew in a deep, tremulous breath.

"That's right, Bae, slowly," Rumplestiltskin soothed, rubbing his son's back.

When the boy had at last managed to clear his lungs of most of the seawater, Rumplestiltskin slowly rolled him onto his back, Belle gently lifting his son's head to rest in her lap.

Baelfire stared up at Rumplestiltskin, his eyes once more illuminated with life. "Papa," he mouthed weakly, the merest hint of a smile on his lips. Rumplestiltskin smiled back as he cupped his son's cheek, tears slowly rolling down his own face.

The howling wind had now calmed to a gentle breeze, playfully ruffling their hair and sending stray flower petals tumbling along the dunes. Rumbling softly with the last notes of thunder, the black storm clouds gradually dissipated, displaying the canvas of twilight hidden behind them. It was as though the land were breathing a sigh of relief, overjoyed that its beloved Peter Pan had escaped death once more.

Belle softly ran her fingers through the boy’s damp curls, smiling up at the sky as an unexpected ray of golden sunlight slipped above the horizon, dancing off the waves and white sand and chasing away the red haze.  Baelfire's eyelids slid closed as his body slowly succumbed to sleep, his father's hand a warm, comforting weight on the center of his chest.

Rumplestiltskin turned his gaze to Belle, smiling softly at the tender way she stroked his son's forehead.  As though sensing him watching her, Belle looked up, matching his smile with a gentle one of her own. 

Rumplestiltskin closed his eyes, reveling in the strong heartbeat beneath his fingers. Despite his overwhelming joy, however, one question managed to echo in his mind:

Why had it stopped in the first place?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The *amazing* voice actor we have playing Rumplestiltskin for our fan audiobook recently turned in his lines for this chapter, and they're super intense. His acting is so realistic, I found myself completely immersed in this scene. I hope you guys are enjoying this story!


	32. Chapter 32

Soft rays of deep orange sunlight filtered through the window of the Drey's largest cabin, illuminating the dust motes tumbling about in the gentle breeze. The low hum of crickets chirping echoed around the tree house, signaling the approach of night. After a long day of answering the Lost Boys' concerned queries about their leader and calming their fears, Belle had finally managed to convince them to begin preparing for an early bedtime. From his seat beside the makeshift bed on which his son lay, Rumplestiltskin could hear the boys' feet scurrying back and forth across the catwalk, occasionally punctuated by Belle's gentle voice. 

He looked down at Baelfire, dabbing his forehead with a damp cloth. In light of the hearth, he could see the boy's cheeks were flushed a deep red, and sweat glistened on the skin of his neck visible above the blankets covering him.  An occasional whimper escaped his dry lips and his eyes darted rapidly beneath closed lids.

Rumplestiltskin sighed, returning the damp cloth to the bowl of water at his feet and running a hand through his hair. They had carried Baelfire back to the tree house just as the sun had completely risen above the horizon, and in the past twelve hours or so, he had not once regained consciousness. Frustration and anxiety warred within Rumplestiltskin as he gazed at his feverish son's face; it seemed no matter what he did, or how much he sacrificed, his boy still suffered.

The sudden slight pressure of a pair of hands on his shoulders startled Rumplestiltskin, pulling him from his dark reverie and compelling him to tilt his head back. Belle smiled softly down at him, brushing his hair away from his forehead and planting a tender kiss there. Rumplestiltskin placed his hand above hers, squeezing gently and wincing as the movement stretched his irritated stitches.

Belle's gaze immediately flickered to the angry wound, her teeth lightly chewing on her bottom lip. The area around the stitches was swollen, strained from the exertion of the compressions he had performed on his son and then carrying the boy back through the forest.

"We should cover it before it starts to fester," Belle said softly, titling her head as she continued inspecting the man's arm.  Rumplestiltskin nodded, watching as she turned and retrieved a fresh strip of fabric from a nearby table, as well as the remainder of the witch hazel she had used the previous day.  She walked back to him, kneeling at his side and placing his arm in her lap. The sting of the herb barely registered in Rumplestiltskin's mind as he returned his gaze to his son, only looking away once to help Belle wind the bandage about his arm.  She tied it off cautiously, taking care not to irritate the wound further, before looking up at him.

"The Lost Boys are in their beds. It's been a long day for them. For all of us," she murmured, turning her gaze to the boy sleeping fitfully on the bed of blankets she had made her first night at the Drey. Her brow furrowed in concern as he groaned, his head pivoting sharply to the side before stilling once more.

Rumplestiltskin retrieved the rag from the bowl at his feet, frowning as he wrung out the excess water and applied it again to his son's forehead.

"He's been like this for hours, hasn't woken once," he whispered, dabbing at the boy's cheeks and neck. "And his fever's not breaking. I don't know what to do." Rumplestiltskin's voice cracked slightly, anguish flashing across his features.

As though the man's words had inspired an epiphany, Belle's face suddenly lit up, her turquoise eyes brightening with the beginnings of hope.  "I think I might," she breathed, pulling herself to her feet, "The Indians; your son said they know this land better than anyone. Maybe there's an herb or—"  

The sudden appearance of a glowing green orb flitting amongst the branches paused Belle's words, and with a soft gasp she watched Aibreann gracefully alight on the windowsill. Rumplestiltskin's gaze followed hers, and even he seemed relieved to see the fairy.  She appeared considerably frazzled, her tresses tangled about her face and her wings drooping with exhaustion. Her aura stuttered slightly as she leaned against the side of the windowsill, and Rumplestiltskin could detect the signs of someone who had expended a significant amount of magic. However, other than a smear of blood at her elbow from a minor scrape, she appeared relatively unharmed.

"I'm so sorry," Aibreann panted, brushing her windswept hair away from her face, "I came back as soon as I could. Hook's crew wasn't happy about the news of his death, but Flannach and I have ensured that they will not seek revenge."

The severity of her tone while speaking of the pirates filled Rumplestiltskin and Belle with confidence at the fairy's words, and gratitude at the obvious pains she had taken to secure their protection. Aibreann's gaze flitted between them, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips, before her eyes landed on Baelfire. Her smile vanished as anxiety twisted her features.

"Ruadh told me there was something wrong with him," She stated quietly, soaring over to where the boy lay and peering fretfully down at him.

"He's feverish, and hasn't regained consciousness since he drifted off at the beach," Rumplestiltskin explained from his seat beside his son, frowning as he returned the damp cloth to the boy's forehead.

"The beach?" Aibreann asked, eyebrows knitted in confusion.

"We found him there. He—he wasn't breathing, and his heart..." Belle's voice trailed off and she shuddered at the terrible memory of how pale and lifeless the sweet boy had been, "Rum used the last of his magic to bring him back."

The fairy visibly started at the revelation, her gaze snapping to Rumplestiltskin's. He silently returned her stare for a long moment, and something like pride and relief flashed in Aibreann's eyes.

"I was going to summon the Indians," Belle added tentatively, her hands fidgeting with her beaded belt as they both turned to face her, "Pet—Baelfire said I could call them, that they would know my voice. Do you think they could help?"

Aibreann turned her gaze to the woman, her eyes lighting up at the suggestion.

"Yes, yes, you must," she breathed fervently, "Call Qentu. He's close to the boy; he'll come immediately."

Belle nodded enthusiastically, turning and striding toward the cabin's entrance.  Simply hearing the hope within the fairy's tone restored some of Rumplestiltskin's own, and he rose to his feet, moving to follow his love outside.

"Wait," Belle said suddenly, her steps halting so quickly Rumplestiltskin nearly collided with her back. "How do I call for him?" She asked urgently, turning to face the pixie.

"Start with his name. The natives are a part of Neverland; they will hear you," Aibreann explained in hushed tones as she alighted on Rumplestiltskin's vacant seat, her gaze fixed on the fitfully sleeping boy. 

Belle nodded again and exited the cabin.  Rumplestiltskin stepped after her, pausing in the doorway and glancing concernedly back at his son.

"I'll stay with him," Aibreann promised softly.  Rumplestiltskin met her gaze; if there was anyone he would trust to watch over his son, besides Belle, it was the tiny green fairy who had saved his life when he was just a lad.  Nodding gratefully, he turned around and joined Belle outside.

Belle stepped out onto the vine staircase and placed her hands on the wooden railing, her gaze traveling over the vast expanse of willows stretched out before her.  The sun had set, and the tranquil blues and purples of twilight filled the sky above. Rumplestiltskin watched as she inhaled a steadying breath, whispering to herself, "Please, let this work..."

Her eyelids slid closed, and with one more deep breath she opened her mouth to speak.

"Qentu," she called, and although she did not shout, her voice seemed to echo ethereally all around them, "Peter's sick, and he needs your help. Please, _please_ come."

At first only an impenetrable silence followed her plea, and both Belle and Rumplestiltskin feared her attempt had not been successful. Then, a sudden gust of wind passed over the island, rustling the leaves strewn about the forest floor and stirring the hanging vines into a swaying dance. The sounds of the forest crescendoed around them, almost frightening in their intensity. But in the next moment, everything grew completely still again, and the couple were almost inclined to wonder if they had imagined the entire ordeal.

Rumplestiltskin and Belle wordlessly glanced at each other, their foreheads creased in confusion and burgeoning disappointment.  Belle cupped her hands around her eyes, scanning the tree line for any sign of movement while listening for further indication that her message had been received. 

"How will I know if he's coming?" She asked aloud in a whisper, leaning farther over the railing to peer into the clearing.

Several long minutes passed with no change, and with a quiet sigh Rumplestiltskin placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Let's go back inside to wait, dearest," he murmured, gently encouraging Belle to face him. With a sigh of her own, she dropped her hands and turned to face him.

Belle suddenly inhaled a sharp gasp, her eyes wide as she stared at something just beyond Rumplestiltskin's shoulder.  With a twinge of apprehension the man turned around, starting slightly at the sight which greeted him.  

Standing before him was a tall young man with black spiky hair and high, defined cheekbones.  His limbs were somewhat longer than what would be deemed normal for a human, and his skin seemed to mirror the colors surrounding them: the deep mahogany of the tree trunk, the warm yellow of the firelight filtering through the main cabin's entrance, and even the subtle blue hue of the toadstools growing amongst the tree's roots.  But most striking of all were his eyes: they were a brilliant jade and stared with an intensity that froze Rumplestiltskin in place.

For a long moment, the native simply stared unblinkingly, his forehead creasing slightly as he seemed to search for something in the man's gaze.  Suddenly, he seemed to find that something, nodding to himself and blinking several times, before turning his gaze to Belle.

"Qentu," She breathed, a slow smile stretching her lips as she took a step toward him. Qentu grinned at her, a pair of dimples appearing in his thin cheeks.  He reached out a hand and pinched the end of one of her curls between his thumb and finger, gently pulling down and then chuckling lightly as it bounced back into place.  Belle laughed at the gesture, which was the very same he had made when they had first met at the Indians' camp.  Rumplestiltskin quirked an eyebrow at the exchange, but said nothing, still feeling somewhat uneasy from the native man's penetrating stare.

Qentu's expression grew serious then, and he stepped aside, revealing a shorter, ancient man standing behind him that they had not noticed before. His face was ashen and heavily wrinkled, and his hair was whiter than the moon creeping above the horizon.  Rumplestiltskin heard Belle gasp slightly and saw her bow her head respectfully out of the corner of his eye. On instinct, he followed suit, feeling somewhat foolish but not wanting to risk causing offense while his son's health hanged in the balance.

"He's the tribe's Elder," Belle explained in a hushed tone, lifting her head again, "We met briefly while Bae and I were looking for you."

Rumplestiltskin raised his head as well, letting his gaze fall on the native Neverlanders standing before them. The elderly one now stared at him, his green eyes tinted with a trace of distrust.

"Qentu brought me with him. He does not know your tongue," the Elder explained, his voice deep and grating.

"Thank you for coming here," Belle said quietly, and Rumplestiltskin took her words as a sign to lead them into the cabin. 

When they entered the warm room, Rumplestiltskin strode straight to his son's bedside, kneeling and placing a hand tenderly on the boy's clammy forehead.  Aibreann fluttered out of the way, alighting instead on the windowsill after nodding at the two natives.  Belle and the Elder remained several steps from where the boy lay, watching as Qentu slowly approached his ill friend.

"What will you do?" Belle asked in a voice barely louder than a whisper, her eyes meeting the Elder's.

"I will do nothing. It is Qentu who has the gift," he croaked in response, gesturing toward his companion with a leathery hand. "He reads hearts, sees souls, clearer than Neverland's springs."

Belle recalled how Qentu had gazed piercingly into her eyes when they had first met, and how he had just done the same with Rumplestiltskin. He had appeared to have been searching for something; had he been reading their hearts?

Qentu halted a mere step away from Baelfire, gazing down with eyes full of concern. He suddenly said something to the Elder, his voice mimicking the low, lilting notes of a mourning dove.

"He asks your permission to come closer," the ancient man translated. Surprise flashed across Rumplestiltskin's features at the native's words, and after a moment he moved aside, allowing Qentu to take his seat beside the boy.

The young Indian knelt down before his friend, frowning as Baelfire released a low moan, his right arm twitching in his sleep. He placed a copper-toned hand above the boy's heart, whispering as quietly as two blades of grass sliding against each other. Eyes fixed unblinkingly on Baelfire's flushed face, he leaned closer, moving his hand to hover above the boy's forehead.  Rumplestiltskin watched as he used two long fingers to lift his son’s eyelids, his movements as gentle and quiet as a summer breeze.

This time there was no long, searching pause. Qentu jerked his hand back with a shudder, his gaze terrified as he started rapidly speaking to the Elder.  Belle and Rumplestiltskin glanced worriedly at each other, their fear only magnifying when the Elder gasped at whatever Qentu was saying.  Belle hurried over to where Rumplestiltskin stood, clasping one of his hands in both of her own.

"What is it?" Belle asked the Elder urgently, but he simply stared down at the boy and his native companion, his face appearing even paler with shock.

"Tell me what is wrong with my son," Rumplestiltskin demanded sharply, fighting not to shout as his fear increased to a nigh suffocating intensity.  The Elder met his gaze, nodding shakily after a moment.

"A war rages within your son."

Rumplestiltskin’s eyes narrowed slightly, frustration welling in his chest at the Elder's cryptic response **.** “What do you mean?” He asked, unable to hide the fear lacing his tone, **“** A war between _what,_ exactly?”

"Between your son and..." The elderly Indian’s raspy voice trailed off, a shiver passing through him.  A slight movement out of the corner of his eye caught Rumplestiltskin's attention, and he trained his gaze on the young native kneeling beside his son.

Slowly, Qentu raised a trembling fist, emerald eyes fixed intently on Rumplestiltskin. He held up his index finger, pausing for a moment, before curving it downward until it resembled a...

_Hook._

The revelation struck Rumplestiltskin so powerfully, he barely registered the Elder speaking, his voice reminiscent of the grumbling of a minor rock slide. Although Rumplestiltskin's could not understand the native man's words, his tone was commanding, and after whistling in response and sighing, Qentu reluctantly rose to his feet.

Without another glance at the fitful boy, or even a parting word to the adults watching over him, the Elder hurriedly strode from the cabin, his movements unexpectedly graceful and feline for one so ancient. Qentu gazed down at his young friend for a long moment, and when he finally raised his spiky-hair head, there were tears in his eyes.  A low hum like a disturbed hornets' nest issued from where the Elder stood outside of the cabin's entrance.

Swallowing thickly, Qentu turned on his feet, dejectedly walking toward the doorway. As he passed by Belle, she grasped one of his long-fingered hands, halting his movements. The Indian turned to face her, a slight frown curving his thin lips.

"Please," Belle begged, her voice heavy with emotion, "Isn't there anything you can do?"

Although the young native was unfamiliar with the English language, he seemed to understand the meaning of her tone. Slowly, he shook his head, a tear escaping the corner of his eye and rolling down his russet cheek. Biting back a sob, Belle removed her hand from his, watching in a hopeless daze as Qentu exited the cabin.

The room was engulfed in silence, and even the logs burning in the hearth did not seem to crackle or hiss.  Tentatively, her forehead creased in anguish, Aibreann flitted over to where Belle stood, perching softly on the woman's shoulder.  They remained where they stood, staring soundlessly at the doorway through which the Indians had disappeared.

Baelfire whimpered once again in his sleep, his head turning to the side as his brow furrowed slightly.  Rumplestiltskin dropped to his knees at his son's side, his own breathing gradually sounding more like strangled gasps as his mind desperately tried to comprehend the news.  He reached out a hand, brushing the boy's dark curls back from his clammy forehead.

Since Hook's demise at the dock, Baelfire had been acting strangely, his temper short toward the Lost Boys and his health visibly deteriorating.  At first Rumplestiltskin had attributed it to the gradual return of his memories and the stress of the day's events. But when the lad's heart had stuttered to a terrifying halt, resisting all attempts of revival but for the powerful jolt of magic...He had begun to suspect that something darker was at play.

And the gifted young Indian had just confirmed such.

Even in death, the sinister captain still plagued the boy. Rumplestiltskin had thought that Hook had merely been seeking reprieve from his own bitter existence, and perhaps to inflict even more pain on his father by forcing him to kill a part of his own son. But now, he could see it was all part of a terrible quest for, in Hook’s eyes, the ultimate revenge. 

"Hook wanted me to kill him," Rumplestiltskin whispered, rage surging like hot tar in his veins as he stared down at Baelfire's flushed face, "So that I would lose any chance with my boy, so that I would be forced to watch him suffer and d—” He could not finish the thought, grief clenching his heart in a vice as he gently laid a hand on the blanket covering his son's chest.

In his peripheral line of view he could see Belle and Aibreann train their concerned gazes on him.  They slowly approached him, and Belle kneeled on the other side of Baelfire's makeshift sickbed, the fairy still standing on her shoulder.  Belle laid her hand over Rumplestiltskin's, lightly squeezing his fingers as she too gazed down at the boy.  

“This is all my fault,” Rumplestiltskin said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. He released a deep sigh, shaking his head as the boy released a low, pained moan in his sleep.

“You couldn’t have known what Hook was planning, Rum,” Belle assured softly, rubbing the pad of her thumb against the back of his hand.

“It doesn’t matter. This is _my_ price to pay,” Rumplestiltskin responded vehemently, removing his hand from beneath hers and cupping his son's cheek. “Not his—” His voice broke.   

Belle and Aibreann's gazes met briefly, wordlessly communicating their sympathy for the broken father. Belle rested her hand against Rumplestiltskin's back, hoping to provide even the briefest notion of comfort. Several long moments of despairing silence passed, before a tiny sharp gasp suddenly issued forth from the emerald pixie, immediately drawing the couple's attention.

"You saw and heard things, didn't you? Dark things?" Aibreann asked urgently, her gaze fixed intensely on Rumplestiltskin. Belle's eyebrows knitted together in puzzlement as she looked between the two.

"Yes," Rumplestiltskin responded quietly, fighting back a grimace as the images of the blood-soaked tree and the floating corpses he had seen from the deck of Hook's ship flashed in his mind, "Memories, but...intensified."

"But you don't anymore?" She asked, her eyes brightening with optimism when the man nodded. "Why is that? What has changed?" Her voice was breathy with enthusiasm and she wrung her hands as she waited for the man's response.

Rumplestiltskin watched her for a moment, frowning as he contemplated his answer.

"I...forgave myself, let go of my hate," he murmured, remembering the crushing weight that had been lifted off his shoulders when he had relinquished his hold on the hook, and what it had symbolized: his obsession with power, his betrayal of his son, his cowardice...

"Exactly!" The fairy exclaimed in a hushed tone, soaring over to perch on the nearby table, "And _that_ is what I think your son must do to overcome this."

Rumplestiltskin did not respond, his brow furrowing as he waited for her to explain further.  Belle approached his side, her head tilted slightly in thought.  Aibreann paced back and forth once, a tiny hand laced in her hair as she grappled with her whirling thoughts.

"Hook was an embodiment of all your son's anger and bitterness, allowed to fester for _centuries_..." She said after a moment, inhaling deeply and shaking her head sadly, "Until it became a most consuming hatred."

Rumplestiltskin's lips pressed together in a hard line as he recalled the blazing hatred that he had occasionally glimpsed in the captain's black eyes, the scorn that had laced every syllable that had left the pirate's mouth...and that solitary crimson tear that had trickled down his weathered cheek. He should have known then that something far darker than anything he had imagined was at play.

"Now that Hook is dead, that hatred has returned to Baelfire, a hundred times more potent than it was when it originally left him," the pixie continued, her eyes now fixated on the suffering boy. "It—its’ acting like a poison to him." Her normally warm and kind features turned grim as she added in a murmur, “One that is so powerful, it is fatal.”

Rumplestiltskin’s breath escaped him in a heavy sigh. “That’s why his heart stopped.”  He scrubbed a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes wearily.

Belle shivered at the memory of the day's earlier and most frightening events, when she had been certain Rumplestiltskin's dear son was beyond rescue. Aibreann ran her tiny fingers through her auburn tresses, fluttering her wings slightly as she watched the man's eyelids slide shut.

“And if it happened once…” Rumplestiltskin's voice trailed off and he shook his head as the terrifying possibility that his son could die, and soon, gripped his heart painfully. His attempt to revive the boy without magic did not work the last time, and there was no guarantee that it ever would. “I don’t have any power to bring him back should it stop again.”

Rumplestiltskin rose to his feet and began pacing back and forth as prickling rage and self-loathing roiled within him **.** This was exactly what he had feared would happen: he would sacrifice his power, and then no longer be able to provide his son with the protection he needed. Although Baelfire claimed that his father’s love was enough, _magic_ was the only real security he could offer the boy, and now that it was gone... Rumplestiltskin rubbed a hand against the back of his neck, hating how helpless and inept as a father he now felt.

"What can we do? How do we get rid of this...poison?" Belle asked fervently as she looked down at the boy she hoped would one day see her as a mother, just as she saw him as a son.

"You have to help him to _forgive_ , just as you did," Aibreann answered, her gaze trained on Rumplestiltskin.

At that moment, Baelfire began to toss and turn, struggling feebly against the blankets weighing down on him. Belle and Rumplestiltskin immediately knelt at his side, with the former reaching out and tenderly combing her fingers through the boy's dark curls.  His movements calmed somewhat, but his face remained twisted with pain.

"His fever's rising," Belle whispered, frowning as she retrieved the small bowl and cloth at his bedside. She pressed the damp cloth against the boy's forehead, lifting it again to gently dab at his cheeks and neck.

"We should talk outside," Aibreann whispered, floating into the air and gesturing for Rumplestiltskin to join her on the vine staircase.

"I'll look after him," Belle assured him, her lips lifting into a soft smile as she nodded for him to follow the emerald pixie.  Rumplestiltskin grasped her free hand, giving it a gentle squeeze before pulling himself to his feet and stepping out onto the stairs.

“I can’t _force_ my son to forgive me," he murmured once outside, leaning against the railing as Belle had done earlier, "If it's not real, he could still die—”

“You’re right,” Aibreann interrupted gently, sparing the man another horrible mental image of his son's untimely death, “But you must have faith that he can, and show him that it is earned.”

Rumplestiltskin looked unfocusedly down at the vacant clearing below, his brow furrowed with regret at the memory of their earlier argument. “But, he was so… _angry_ with me the last we talked—”

“He’s _hurt,_ Rumplestiltskin," Aibreann cut in again, fervently trying to instill some faith in the man, "That does not mean he is beyond forgiveness."

Rumplestiltskin's throat constricted at her words and his chin trembled as he fought against the tears stinging at the corners of his eyes. “Hook didn’t forgive me," he choked, fixing his gaze once more on the fairy, "Why would he?” He gestured helplessly behind him toward the cabin's entrance. 

Aibreann sighed, alighting on the railing beside his bruised hands.

“Because your son has an advantage over Hook.  His pain is still fresh, still capable of being healed.  Without reconciliation, Hook's pain only magnified, consuming him. Eventually, he went down a dark road, from which there was _no_ return.”

She fixed him with a hopeful stare, her voice firm as she assured, "Your son still has a chance." 

Something graver entered her gaze then, and she redirected her eyes to the forest.

"At the dock," she began tentatively, inhaling a deep breath, "You confronted your pain, accepted the role it has played in your life. You wept..."

Her voice wavered on the last word and she pressed her lips together against a rush of emotion. Her eyes met Rumplestiltskin's, and he was surprised to see tears in them. He watched as her shoulders rose with another steadying breath.

"I think that is what your son must do, what you have _shown_ him how to do," she murmured, glancing at the sleeping boy through the cabin doorway, "To completely let go."

Rumplestiltskin narrowed his eyes slightly, a rush of self-loathing surging within him at the reminder that his son had seen him at his weakest, most vulnerable point. He shook his head, resting his elbows on the railing and placing his head in his hands.

“Bae has never let those walls down around me. I have not even seen him cry since he was a wee lad…he has always put up his guard before a single tear could fall," Rumplestiltskin sighed, swallowing against the lump rising in his throat, "He wanted to be strong, for me."

"To my knowledge, in the centuries I have known your son, he has not cried.” Aibreann agreed, her expression stricken with sympathy for the boy, “I thought it a bit…unusual, but now I understand why.”

The man did not respond, instead sighing deeply and rubbing a hand against the back of his neck.  Aibreann shook her head, stepping closer so that she could peer up at him.

“Rumplestiltskin, you must help your son to let go,” the fairy continued adamantly, “To trust you to be there when he does, but more importantly, you must be _his_ strength, so that he can."

Rumplestiltskin stared at the fairy for a long moment, his chest feeling painfully tight as he comprehended her words.

The sudden sound of a child's voice echoed from within the cabin behind them. Glancing confusedly at Aibreann, Rumplestiltskin quietly turned about and strode toward the doorway.

His steps froze as his eyes fell on a tiny, sandy-haired boy cradling one of his son's hands in his own and speaking in a hushed voice, his hair and clothes mussed from sleep.

"Peter's going to get better, right?" Tootles asked in a whisper, peering hopefully at the woman kneeling at his side. When she did not immediately respond, his bottom lip began to quiver.

"Oh, sweetheart..." Belle held out her arms, smiling softly when the youngest Lost Boy crawled into them and curled up on her lap.  She rocked him slowly, rubbing soothing circles against his back as he sniffled loudly. 

"He's holding on, dear," Belle whispered, leaning her head against Tootles', "And we'll do _everything_ we can to help him. That's what matters."

"I want him back, Momma," Tootles sobbed, pressing his face closer to her shoulder. Rumplestiltskin saw Belle's eyes slowly fill with tears as she continued to rock the little boy.

"We need to be strong for him, and have faith," Belle whispered vehemently, encouraging Tootles to sit back and tenderly wiping away his tears, "Can you do that?"

Rumplestiltskin watched as the child nodded shakily and then threw his arms around Belle's neck for one more tight hug.  It was then that Belle's eyes met his own, and he strode over to her, kneeling down and placing a hand on Tootles head. The child looked up, his green eyes wide as he regarded the man.

"My son _will_ get through this," he murmured, offering the tiny boy a small smile, "He's the bravest boy you know, right?"

"Right," Tootles responded, nodding enthusiastically and noisily wiping his nose on his sleeve. Rumplestiltskin ruffled the child's hair, smiling softly at the boy's dimpled grin. His eyes met Belle's, and there was such a sweet tenderness to her gaze, he felt for a moment as though he were falling in love with her all over again.

A sudden creaking echoed above, and they all titled their heads back to glance at the ceiling of the cabin.

"The others can't sleep either," Tootles said quietly, looking up at Belle, "They'll probably come down soon, too."

Rumplestiltskin's and Belle's gazes met, and they seemed to silently agree that the commotion of so many visitors all at once would not be best for Baelfire at that time.

"Let's get you back to bed, hm? Peter needs his rest right now. We can tell the other boys what we talked about," She said softly, rising to her feet and holding the tiny boy in her arms. Tootles nodded, laying his head against her shoulder and waving a hand in farewell at Rumplestiltskin.

He watched them as they exited the cabin, his slight smile fading as he glanced back down at his restless son.  Although he had assured the littlest Lost Boy that "Peter" would pull through, doubt still warred within him.

Baelfire groaned again in his sleep, his eyes squinting tightly against some unseen source of pain. One of his fists clenched, drawing Rumplestiltskin's attention. He glanced down at his son's arm, his gaze falling on a slight strip of white skin wrapped around the boy's wrist, as though something had been shielding it from the sun...

The image of the silver bracelet submerged at the bottom of Neverland's ocean suddenly lunged to the forefront of Rumplestiltskin's mind.  His heart began racing in his chest and he hurriedly pulled himself to his feet.

"I'm going back for it," he said aloud, turning to face the entryway.

"Back for what?" Aibreann asked quietly from where she hovered just over the cabin's threshold.

"The bracelet," Rumplestiltskin answered fervently, glancing back at where his son lay, "He was searching for it. My son—he—” The man inhaled deeply, trying to calm himself enough to form coherent thoughts.   

"He's _fighting_. He hasn't given up.” The realization flowed through Rumplestiltskin’s veins, watching as his son flinched once more in his sleep.

Rumplestiltksin glanced back at the fairy, the corners of his lips twitching upward at the way her eyes brightened with the same optimism he felt.  He retrained his gaze on his unconscious son, his smile vanishing but his brown eyes blazing with hope.

 “And I’m going to show him that I haven’t either.”

 


	33. Chapter 33

The sensation of a cool, damp cloth gently dabbing his forehead was the first thing Baelfire noticed as he slowly slid back into consciousness. Next to follow was the somewhat stifling weight of several blankets lain atop him. Through his closed eyelids he could see the orange glare of what must be a fire burning in the hearth, and with a soft groan he blinked them open.

Despite how unwell he still felt—his head swimming slightly and his joints aching from fever—Baelfire could not help but smile up at the woman sitting at his bedside as she gasped in surprised relief. 

"You're awake..." Belle breathed, and Baelfire might have laughed at the obviousness of her observation had he not glimpsed the pearly moonlight filtering in through the window. It had been dawn when he had drifted off at the beach... Had an entire day passed while he slept? Or had _several_ days?

"How are you feeling, Bae?" Belle asked concernedly, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead and cheek. He forced his anxious thoughts to the back of his mind as he considered her question.  A dull pain throbbed in his joints, perhaps from the combined effect of his early fall and the fever Belle had been apparently trying to calm with the damp cloth resting in her hand. His chest felt tight and ached when he tried to draw a deep breath.  Perhaps worst of all was the way his stomach still twisted with fear from the vivid, sporadic nightmares that had been plaguing him.  Baelfire swallowed thickly, repressing a shudder as he fought to retrain his focus on Belle's words.

"Not so bad," he croaked eventually, his throat scratchy with thirst. It was an obvious lie, but Belle looked like she had not slept in days and the last thing Baelfire wanted to do was worry her even more. Her bottom eyelids were framed by purple bruises and there was something wan, though no less sincere, about the smile she had offered him.

She seemed to see through his words anyway, compassion filling her turquoise eyes as she reached over and lifted a tin cup from the floor beside her feet.

"Here, try to drink some water," she commanded softly, placing a hand behind his head and bringing the cup to his lips.  Although the cool liquid felt like heaven as it flowed down his parched throat, Baelfire could only manage a couple mouthfuls, the energy required to lift his head quickly leaving him.  He let his head fall back against the pillow, murmuring weakly in gratitude as his head swam from the swift movement.

For a few moments Belle simply gazed down at him, her fingers tenderly brushing his damp curls back from his forehead. Her touch was soothing and sweet, not unlike the warm breezes Neverland sometimes breathed when he was in need of comfort.  A question suddenly sprung to the front of Baelfire's mind, and when the room finally ceased spinning, he opened his mouth to voice it.

"Did you know?" He asked, surprised to find his voice was no louder than a whisper. 

"Know what?" She responded, her forehead crinkling slightly in confusion.

"That...I was his son?" Baelfire averted his gaze from hers; he was almost afraid to hear her answer. As irrational as it was to suspect anything ill of someone as kind and loving as Belle, he would not be able to help but feel a twinge of betrayal should she confirm that she had known, and had not told him...

"No," Belle answered softly, cupping his cheek and bringing his eyes back to her own, "But I hoped you would be."

Baelfire felt a rush of affection at her confession. Living and adventuring in Neverland with the other Lost Boys as Peter Pan, he had never really felt a lack of friendship or love.  But at night, as they all had lain awake in silence, waiting for slumber to come, there had been a sadness, a loss that had hung in the air even before Scout's death.  But since Belle's arrival, with every story she told and lullaby she sang, that sense of abandonment grew less and less. Baelfire never wanted to feel it again.

"I love you, Mother," he whispered so softly he was surprised that Belle heard him, her eyes widening slightly and filling with tears.  Baelfire felt a surge of worry that he had somehow upset her, and opened his mouth to apologize, but his fear was calmed when she leaned over to press a soft kiss to his forehead.

She straightened a moment later, sniffling lightly and smiling down at him.  She turned her gaze to the doorway then, biting her bottom lip briefly.

"Your father's just outside," she said after a moment, looking back down at him, "He'll want to see you, Bae."

Baelfire inhaled slowly, before sighing as he rubbed a hand across his face. Shame coiled uncomfortably in his chest at the memory of their earlier argument, of the way he had acted.  He had been angry, was _still_ angry, but that did not justify all the things he had said.  After taking another steadying breath, he nodded, keeping his hand over his face even as he heard Belle rise to her feet and walk over to the cabin's entrance.

With his eyes closed, the shadows lurking at the corners of his mind, the residue of his fevered nightmares, seemed even more menacing. The boy breathed slowly through his nose, focusing with all of his strength on Belle's and his father's muffled voices outside, if only to stave off the silver hooks and cruel leers flashing relentlessly in his thoughts.

They stopped speaking shortly after, and Baelfire listened as a pair of feet stepped into the cabin, pausing just over the threshold.  Tentatively, a different sort of anxiety rising within him, the boy lowered his hand and opened his eyes. 

His father stood several feet from his makeshift sickbed, his hand tucking something small and silver beneath the sash at his waist.  The clothes hanging on his frame appeared darker, as though damp, and his hair was somewhat disheveled.  Under any other circumstances, Baelfire might have laughed at how closely his father resembled a buccaneer in that moment.

Instead, he merely stared silently up at him.  Unbridled relief shone in the man's brown eyes, but it was accompanied by a hint of something else, something unsettling...It was what Baelfire imagined he would feel if he were handling something unpredictably dangerous, like the packed gunpowder the pirates so often used.  For a long moment neither father nor son said anything, and then when the boy did attempt to speak, he was seized by a brief coughing fit.

Rumplestiltskin immediately strode to his side, concern etched into his expression.  Although the coughing lasted but a handful of seconds, it left behind a burning pain that radiated from several ribs.

"Do you want to try drinking something?" His father asked quietly, gesturing to the cup of water Belle had offered him earlier. 

Baelfire nodded; the coughing had gotten his blood flowing and he felt a little stronger than he had before.  He braced his hands beside his waist beneath the blankets, pushing to lift himself into a sitting position. 

In the next moment, Rumplestiltskin's arm was around the boy's shoulders, attempting to help him.  Baelfire shrugged him off, his cheeks reddening from a combination of embarrassment and frustration.

"I can do it," the boy bit out harsher than he intended, his jaw clenched against the pain.  After a brief pause to gather his strength, he forced himself upright, holding the blankets close as the cool air met the flushed skin of his back.  The movement sent a jolt of pain through his chest, and he could not smother a hiss as he placed a hand above the smarting ribs. 

Rumplestiltskin's brow furrowed, his lips pressing together in a firm line. "What is it, son?"

"Nothing," Baelfire mumbled, pulling the blanket tighter against himself to cover what he was sure must be bruises.

"Bae," Rumplestiltskin pleaded, looking into the boy's eyes, "Tell me what hurts."

Baelfire stared at him for a long moment, inhaling deeply to sigh and flinching at the resultant twinge of pain. Shaking his head in resignation, he lowered the blankets. Both he and Rumplestiltskin glanced down as the move revealed three black bruises peppering the left side of his chest, each surrounded by a ring of deep blue and violet.  Baelfire lightly grazed one with a finger, wincing and glancing up in silent question at his father.

Guilt flashed in Rumplestiltskin's eyes as they trailed over the angry bruises, before he returned his gaze to his son's.  "I—I tried to revive you without magic, first." 

The mention of magic inspired a wave of anger to crest within the boy, but he managed to quell it before it could manifest in cruel words. Glancing back down at his chest, Baelfire nodded, recalling the method his father said people used to revive others in the land where he had lived before coming here.

"Here, I can help with the pain."  Rumplestiltskin stretched his hands toward him, but Baelfire could not help but pull away, grunting at the resulting sharp jab he felt in his ribs.

"No magic?" He asked, his teeth gritting against the throbbing ache.

"No magic," Rumplestiltskin promised, and Baelfire frowned briefly before reluctantly leaning back against the cabin wall that was serving as his headboard.

"There is a way to bind them, so that it does not hurt as much to move," he explained, rising to gather some of the spare strips of cloth Belle had left on a nearby table, “Something I learned back in the ogre wars.” 

He sat back down at the boy's bedside and reached out a hand, silently requesting to touch his left arm. Baelfire nodded, watching as his father folded the arm across his chest, palm down.

"I will never use magic again, son. I couldn't if I wanted to," Rumplestiltskin said softly as he wrapped a strip of fabric around the boy's shoulder.  Baelfire's gaze snapped up to meet his father's, confusion and shock written in his features.

"When Belle and I came here, the Rheul Gorhum granted me a very small amount of magic.  If I could refrain from using it, could demonstrate self-control, I would be free to wield magic as I so desired upon returning.  If I used it, I forsook any right to it, forever."

Baelfire remained silent as his father wrapped the last strip of cloth about the base of his rib cage.  His mind, still somewhat sluggish with fever, struggled to comprehend the man's words.   

"No more magic, ever," Rumplestiltskin simplified, and Baelfire was surprised to detect no semblance of regret in his father's tone. "It is my price for using the little she gave me to save you."

Rumplestiltskin finished binding his chest, twisting the last inches of fabric into a knot. Balefire still could not bring himself to speak, his gaze fixed unblinkingly on his father's face.

"And I am glad to pay it, son.  I would do it again, in a heartbeat.  I would pay _any_ price."

His father's words seemed to travel straight from Baelfire's ears to his heart, which clenched at the sincerity and _truth_ behind them.  A lump rose in his throat as he struggled to find a response; what does one say when they've finally heard the words they had been waiting to hear for _centuries_?

A sudden movement out of the corner of Baelfire's eyes caught his attention, and his gaze darted to the opposite side of the cabin.  He bit back a shout at the sight which greeted him.

Leaning against the wall, his polished namesake pressed thoughtfully against his chin, was Hook.  A deep red stain covered half of his shirt, but he seemed to pay it no mind. A sinister smirk stretched his thin lips as his black gaze met Baelfire's. Baelfire could not seem to tear his own away, instead staring, transfixed, at the menacing apparition.

"He's lying," the pirate sneered, his eyes glinting in the firelight, "He has always loved his magic more than you."

"What's wrong, Bae?"

The boy's gaze snapped to his father, his brow furrowing at the look of confusion on the man's face.  _Did he not see...?_   Heart pounding, Baelfire looked back across the cabin. Hook was gone.

Trying to ignore the way his blood now felt like ice in his veins, the boy shook his head, meeting his father's gaze once more.  Rumplestiltskin did not seem convinced, so with a small cough Baelfire tried to change the subject.

"What—what happened to me, at the beach?" He asked haltingly, his fear-laced mind striving to recall the day's events, "I don't think I drowned; the tide wasn't that strong..."

"You didn't drown," Rumplestiltskin confirmed, hesitation slowing his words, "You...Your heart stopped, son, while you were swimming."

Baelfire's eyebrows rose in shock, trepidation twisting in his abdomen at the revelation. "W-why did it stop?" He asked, his voice shaking slightly.

His father sighed, rubbing a hand at his eyes wearily before meeting his son's gaze once more.  The gravity of his stare did not ease Baelfire's fear as he waited for the man to answer.

"Do you remember when Hook controlled me at the dock? When he tried to make me..." His voice trailed off, but Baelfire nodded anyway, knowing that he would likely never forget how close his own father had come to unwillingly killing him.

"Do you recall how you stopped it? How you freed me from the command?" Rumplestiltskin continued, his voice wavering slightly as he obviously fought not to frighten Baelfire with whatever he was trying to explain.

Again the boy nodded, his eyebrows knitting together as he awaited further clarification.

"You were able to do that, Bae, because..." Again Rumplestiltskin sighed, and Baelfire's pulse began thudding in his ears, "Because you and Hook are, in essence, the same."

Rumplestiltskin spoke so quietly, Baelfire almost did not hear him over his own racing heartbeat. But when his mind finally did comprehend the words, he could not tell what he wanted to do: laugh at the absurdity of the notion or yell at his father for once more comparing him to his greatest foe.

As though detecting his son's conflicting emotions, Rumplestiltskin hastily continued, his tone apologetic and urgent. "When you arrived here, after you fell through that vortex–after I let you go, the fairies taught you to fly, right?"

His breathing somewhat heavier as he tried to curtail his rising frustration, Baelfire nodded.

"As you flew, you forgot," Rumplestiltskin explained, his eyes filled with anguish as he pressed on, "All that pain, pain _I_ caused, left you, and..." He inhaled a deep, steadying breath that only made Baelfire even more nervous. "It transformed into Hook, growing in intensity with each passing year."

His father's words struck Baelfire so soundly, he was incapable of speech for a long moment, his thoughts whirling at a nauseating rate in his mind.  His worst enemy, the man he had feared and fought for centuries, the villain who murdered fairy and child alike without pause, was a part of _himself_?

Bile rose in Baelfire's throat at the idea, and he shut his eyes as he fought to steady his staggered breathing. Vaguely, he registered the pressure of his father's hand on his shoulder.

"It was the price of the magic the fairies used to teach you to fly," Rumplestiltskin murmured, his voice sounding just as anguished as the boy felt.  Baelfire's eyelids sprang open at the news, his breath catching in his throat as he stared in shock at his father.

"Did they know that I—that Hook and I were—"

"No," Rumplestiltskin responded, shaking his head. A tiny fragment of Baelfire's distress left him at the assurance; he did not think he could stand it if Aibreann, his dear friend and guardian for all these years, had committed such a betrayal.

White-hot fury unlike anything Baelfire had ever felt suddenly blazed within him, and with a heated glare in the direction of the windowsill on which the fairies so often perched, he snarled in a voice deeper and darker than usual, "Good thing I managed to kill off three of them."

Both he and his father started slightly at his violent words, their mutual appalled gazes meeting briefly, before Baelfire averted his eyes to his lap.  His breathing quickened as fear and guilt gripped him with their icy talons.  All the crimes Hook had committed, the mermaids he had finned, the fairies he had slaughtered...how close he had been to killing Belle for her selfless refusal to reveal the location of the Lost Boys' shelter, how he had tortured his father...

Unadulterated shame coursed through the boy's veins as he recalled how he, as Hook, had imprisoned his father in the sweltering bowels of the _Jolly Roger_ with very little sustenance or water.

"I made you abandon Belle, locked you in the brig," he confessed in a low voice, still staring down at his lap.

"You remember that?" Rumplestiltskin asked, his voice laced with what Baelfire could only define as dread.  The boy nodded, swallowing thickly.

"The memories are all...jumbled, like a puzzle. But if I focus on just one," Baelfire paused, looking up with unfocused eyes, "I can remember _everything_."

He fought back a shudder as the memory of Hook—himself—brutally punishing a crewmember for losing the Lost Boys in the forest flooded his mind.

"You don't have to go there, son," his father pleaded, gently squeezing the shoulder on which his hand rested.  Baelfire did not listen, allowing his thoughts to delve farther into Hook's memories.

"I controlled you with the dagger, wanted you to use your magic to kill that _brat_ Peter Pan," he hissed, rage filling his veins like hot tar as he thought of how much he longed for that boy's death... _No!_ Baelfire shook his head, trying to will away the thought. _He_ was Peter Pan, and he was good and true...

"And then when you were only trying to escape," he continued in a lifeless tone, his gaze tracing over the bandage covering his father's chest, "I did that."

His hand seemed to lift of its own accord, his index finger curving down into the shape of a hook.  With the point of his finger he slowly traced the wound, mimicking the memory currently playing in his mind.  Rumplestiltskin flinched at the motion, and when Baelfire met his eyes he found a mixture of hurt, and horror whirling in their depths. 

For a miniscule stretch of time the boy felt a sinister sense of satisfaction at the man's distraught expression, but the feeling fled as quickly as it had come, leaving distressed empathy in its place.  Baelfire gently flattened the palm of his hand over the wound, wishing he could undo all the pain he had caused.

His father remained silent, staring at him apprehensively. The look in his eyes reminded Baelfire of how he had felt when he and the Lost Boys had stumbled upon a wounded wild Neverbear: longing to help the poor creature, but wary of the pain it could inflict with its claws.  It unsettled him to think his father felt that way now toward his own son.

His gaze settled on the strip of cloth wound about the man's forearm, and he grazed it with his still-curved finger. "And when we were fighting on the dock, I wanted you to feel _pain_ , but I didn't want to kill you..." His voice trailed off for a moment, and when he looked up at Rumplestiltskin he felt another dark surge of satisfaction at the abject fear he saw in the man's eyes. "No, I had something _better_ in mind."

A smirk stretched his lips as he looked back down at his father's bandaged arm. "And I made this," he sneered, sharply dragging the point of his finger across the wound just as he had on the dock.  One of his father's hands suddenly grasped his own, holding it still.

"You also mended it," the man said softly, and with a jolt Baelfire looked up at him, feeling a rush of panic as he comprehended the cruelty of his recent actions. He felt his face flush with shame once more, and never before had he longed so terribly to fly again, to _forget_. His eyes darted to the window; maybe if he could just find one happy thought...

"You can fight this, Bae," Rumplestiltskin assured him fervently, bringing the hand that had been resting on Baelfire's shoulder up to cup his cheek. 

"I've done so many horrible things, Papa..." Baelfire whispered, a crushing wave of grief closing in on him.  He inhaled a shaky breath, forcing himself to meet his father's gaze.

"All this time, I felt like Scout's death was my fault, like I could have prevented it—"

"Bae—" Rumplestiltskin attempted to interrupt, but the boy pressed on, his tone growing angrier.

"And I was right. It was my fault, because _I_ killed him," he grated scornfully, feeling more hatred for himself than he had toward any other person or creature before. What would the Lost Boys think if they knew the truth? What would _Tootles_ think, if he learned that the boy he looked up to so much had murdered his best friend?

Another rush of hatred coursed through him, but this time it was accompanied by a mental image of a small boy cowering before a tall, hooked shadow.  "But I _wanted_ to kill him," Baelfire hissed with relish, his eyes glinting in the dying firelight.

"No, son," Rumplestiltskin said urgently, placing both hands on the boy's shoulders, "Those are Hook's feelings, not yours."

Baelfire stared up at him, frustration at the man's words bubbling in his chest.  "Don't you understand?" He asked harshly, trying to jerk his shoulders out of his father's reach. "I'm a _monster_!"

"Baelfire—" His father interjected sharply, but the boy paid him no mind, continuing his tirade.

"I've hurt so many, I've done such terrible things—"

"And I still love you," Rumplestiltskin said firmly, causing Baelfire to freeze in shock, "Will _always_ love you."

Baelfire stared at him, his eyes wide and his chest feeling almost excruciatingly tight.

"I said so even then on the dock," his father added quietly, gently squeezing his shoulders, "Do you remember that?"

The boy's mind immediately supplied the memory of Rumplestiltskin cornering him on the pier, his expression tortured as he swore his love before inflicting the fatal blow.  Baelfire slowly nodded, focusing his attention back on the present.

"But you said yourself you know what I can be capable of," the boy murmured ashamedly, glancing up at his father before once more staring down at his lap, "You were right."

"No, I wasn't, Bae," Rumplestiltskin said tenderly, but Baelfire could not bring himself to believe the words and shook his head vehemently. He heard his father sigh heavily.

"Now you listen to me," Rumplestiltskin said firmly, and Baelfire felt the makeshift bed dip slightly as his father moved to sit on the side. The boy kept his gaze lowered, his bottom lip trembling as he fought against the guilt threatening to drown him.

"Look at me, son."

Swallowing heavily, Baelfire slowly met his father's eyes, grimacing as he imagined the hate he feared he would see in them.  But he found only love in their depths, and it made his throat constrict almost painfully.

"Hook was the man you could have become, but you are _not_ him," he said fervently, staring unblinkingly into his son's eyes. "Can you believe that?"

Baelfire dropped his gaze once more. He _wanted_ to believe his father, truly he did. But image after image of all the pain and suffering he had sown throughout this land flashed inexorably in his mind. 

"I don't want to talk anymore," he murmured dejectedly, leaning farther back on the bed.  He felt nauseous at the onslaught of terrible memories, and his vision had begun to blur at the edges.

"Bae—"

"Please, Papa." His voice must have sounded as weary as Baelfire felt, for Rumplestiltskin did not argue further, and returned to his previous seat next to the bed.

"Try to rest some more, son," his father advised gently, lifting the blankets higher so that they covered Baelfire up to his neck. "We can talk again when you wake up."

"I'm afraid to sleep again," Baelfire whispered even as his eyelids began to droop.

"How come?"

"Hook's there. We fight," he mumbled drowsily, the room already beginning to fade away.  Through the haze he glimpsed his father's face, lined with deep concern.

"Who wins?" The man asked in a quavering voice.

"I don't know," he breathed, his consciousness drifting into darkness, “I never get that far."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading our story! We would love to hear from you! :)


	34. Chapter 34

The world was empty of sound; there was no sweet night music soaring outside, nor the faint crackle of a fire dancing in the cabin's hearth. Only a tense, impenetrable silence greeted the boy as he gradually roused from slumber. The weight of the heavy blankets covering him felt so stiflingly hot, he felt he might burst into flame if he did not remove them at once. With a low groan he pushed them off his flushed form and pulled himself into a sitting position. 

The gentle rush of cool air which greeted him was bliss, but the anxiety he felt did not relent, continuing to coil uncomfortably in his chest.  The boy’s flesh suddenly puckered in goosebumps, the hairs on his arms rising, and he had the distinct feeling that someone was watching him, like a helpless prey in the moments before its stalking predator strikes.

A sudden grating sound, like metal against a sharpening stone, pierced the silence around him.  The noise sent an involuntary shudder through his body, and he hesitantly stepped onto the cabin floor.  His father occupied a nearby chair, his head leaning on his shoulder as he finally succumbed to exhaustion.  Another long screech echoed from outside, causing the boy to start slightly, but the man remained motionless in his seat, save for the subtle rise and fall of his chest.

Inhaling a deep breath to steel his courage, the boy strode toward the cabin's entrance.  He paused just outside the doorway, his heart thudding in his ears so loudly he almost missed the next metallic scrape.  After another steadying breath, he forced himself to step over the threshold and onto the vine staircase.

It took all of his strength not to release a shout at the sight which greeted him. At the end of the stairs stood Hook, his right hand sliding a sharpening stone along his silver namesake.  The captain glanced up, a dark smirk stretching his lips at the sight of Peter's horror-stricken face.

"H-how did you find this place?" Peter stumbled, feeling as though he might be sick when his worst enemy simply laughed scornfully.

"You told me yourself," the captain retorted wryly, tossing the sharpening stone aside and inspecting his polished hook in the moonlight. "Were you not listening when _Papa_ explained it all?"

Anger and fear roiled within Peter at the man's words, and he gripped the railing in front of him so tightly his knuckles shone white.

"Why are you still here?" Peter asked forcefully, struggling to regain his composure and assume the flippant attitude he typically presented when around the pirate. If he let his walls down, this would only hurt even more.

Hook's answering chuckle sent a chill down the boy's spine. His black eyes glinted with murder, and in a low, hissing voice he responded, "Because _you're_ still here."

The pirate bore his teeth in a sinister grin, slowly ascending the steps of the vine staircase. "But not for long," he added in a sing-song voice, his leer widening when the boy shuffled back a step. Hook drew nearer, and Peter could not seem to command his legs to remove himself from the approaching danger, remaining frozen in place.  Although he had faced his worst foe countless times, and often with scant more than a flicker of unease, the boy felt an inexplicable, paralyzing fear in his presence now.

Peter cast a frightened glance into the cabin, wishing he could call for his father to come help him, but his throat was suddenly unbearably dry and Hook stepped closer and closer. Before the boy could even summon the breath he needed to try to yell, the pirate was an arm's length away, his silver namesake glittering menacingly.

"He wouldn't come for you anyway," Hook sneered, his eyes flickering to the man slouched in a chair beside Peter's abandoned sickbed.

Peter snapped his gaze back to the pirate, his face feeling hot with anger. "Yes, he would," he insisted adamantly, his voice raspy, "He came all the way here, to Neverland, just to find me!"

Hook threw back his head, releasing a harsh laugh before shaking his head incredulously. "He came here to find the _boy_ he lost all those years ago, not the _monster_ you've become since then."

Peter felt an anvil of dread sink in his stomach, and it must have shown in his expression, for in the next moment Hook tutted in mock sympathy.

"You really thought he would want you?" He said with a tenderness that was not reflected in his cold, lifeless eyes, "After all you've _done_?"

He raised his only hand to caress the boy's cheek, but before he could Peter jerked his head out of his reach, horrified.  The pirate's hand was coated in a thick, syrupy layer of blood.

His expression bemused, Hook glanced down at his hand, chuckling when he realized the source of the boy's fear.  He rubbed his fingers together, smearing the crimson mess further.

"Afraid to face the blood you helped spill?" He challenged, returning his gaze to Peter's. His features darkened, and in a snarling voice he added, "It's on your hands too, boy."

Peter's gaze frantically darted to his own hands, and with a strangled cry he realized the captain was right. Heart racing and chest heaving, he desperately tried to wipe the blood on his trousers, but the stain only spread, as though it were leaking from his hands instead of covering them.  All the while, Hook laughed, reveling in tormenting his other half.

A low growl suddenly echoed beneath them, drawing both of their attention. Peering over the railing, they glimpsed the long, torpedo-shaped form of the crocodile that had plagued them both for centuries.  With its sharp claws it pulled itself closer to the base of the tree, its jowls opening in hunger as it fixed them with a hungry glare.

"It wants both of us," Hook hissed, a note of relish laced in his dark tone. Peter met his black gaze, feeling almost faint at the sheer hatred he saw within it. "It will never stop until it does," the pirate added in a voice barely louder than a whisper.

Before Peter had any time to react, the pirate lashed out, gripping the boy's upper arms with his hand and the groove of his hook. Without a moment's hesitation, he pulled them both over the railing, and all Peter could see was the crocodile's open jaws as they fell down, down, down...

* * *

 

Rumplestiltskin stood on the vine staircase, leaning against the winding railing as he watched Belle escort the other boys into the clearing to prepare supper.  The sun hung low in the sky, preparing to abandon its post and make way for Neverland's night. Another day had passed, and still his son was lost in a fitful and feverish slumber.

A sudden frightened shout echoed from within the cabin, setting Rumplestiltskin's nerves on edge and heart pounding as he turned and bolted inside.  The moment he crossed the threshold, a jolt of relief coursed through him upon finding his son sitting upright, eyes open and alert.  The reprieve was short-lived, however, when he saw how frantically the boy's gaze darted around the room, his face pale with fear and his form trembling slightly.

"Bae?" Rumplestiltskin prompted gently, stepping over to the side of his sickbed. So as not to startle the boy further, he slowly sat down in the chair he had been occupying almost the entire time since his son drifted once more into unconsciousness. He watched as Baelfire's eyes darted to the window, widening slightly as they took in the descending sun and the boy realized he had slept the entire night and day away.  But the boy's shock at the passage of time seemed to dissipate as he returned his gaze to the corner of the cabin, shaking his head slightly as though in response to a question Rumplestiltskin could not hear.

"Son, it's all right," Rumplestiltskin assured softly, reaching out a hand to place on the boy's shoulder, "It was only a dream."

Baelfire leaned away from him, keeping his shoulder out of his father's reach.  His brow furrowed and his expression appeared almost affronted at the man's words.

"It's wasn't just a dream!" Baelfire responded harshly, and his voice would have been a yell were it not hoarse from so many hours of disuse. His chest heaved with every breath he drew as though he had sprinted the entire length of the island. “This one was different.”

"What do you mean?" Rumplestiltskin asked, his forehead creasing in concern as his son continued to stare fixatedly at the opposite end of the cabin.

"I can still see him," Baelfire answered shakily, closing his eyes for a moment and swallowing thickly, " _Hear_ him."  A shudder ran through the boy and he clasped his free hand over one of his ears, screwing his eyes tight. Rumplestiltskin felt dread close about his heart like an iron fist at the sight.

"Bae, listen to me," he said urgently, leaning closer to where his son slouched on the bed. The boy whimpered, pressing his hand even tighter against his head. "You can fight this!"

"I can't!" Baelfire shouted, his whole figure shaking from the strain of sudden use.

"You have to!"

The boy flinched at his father's shout, his breathing quickening as he shook his head once more. Hesitantly, as though fighting against an invisible force, he pulled his hand back down to his lap. After a long moment, he lifted his eyelids, glancing at Rumplestiltskin with eyes that appeared black in the slowly fading sunlight.

"Why should I listen to you? You were never a father to me," he grated in a low, growling voice that was not his own, "Only a _disappointment_."

Rumplestiltskin did not wince at the cruel words, not because they were not painful—for indeed, they were terribly so—but because they were the exact same words Hook had lashed at him on the dock.  His son was fighting the sinister pirate at this very moment, and it chilled Rumplestiltskin to his core to think that Hook might be gaining the upper hand.  

Baelfire continued to stare at the man, his lips curving upward in a smirk. "When I saw you so _broken_ at the dock, _crying_ ," he sneered, his eyes glinting maliciously, "Was that for _me_?"

When Rumplestiltskin did not respond, the boy's lips stretched into a grin, eventually parting to release a low, derisive chuckle. Fear trickled down Rumplestiltskin’s spine at the sound, and although he knew it was caused by Hook’s influence, hearing such hatred spill from the boy's mouth seemed to shake his very soul.

But Baelfire's entire demeanor changed then: his eyes slid closed and he returned his trembling free hand to his ear.

"No..." He moaned in a tiny voice, squeezing his eyes shut, "Stop it!"

"Fight this!" Rumplestiltskin urged, his own chest heaving as he watched his son shiver and struggle against the demon plaguing him.

Baelfire suddenly yanked his other arm from beneath the bandage, clasping the freed hand against his other ear and exposing the line of black bruises along his rib cage.

"Enough!" He shouted, hunching his shoulders forward.

A long minute passed in which Baelfire continued to quake and groan, but then, slowly, his breathing became more even.  He gradually lowered his hands from his ears, his shoulders releasing some of their tension.  With a shaky sigh, he opened his eyes and lifted his head, glancing about the domed cabin.  This time, it seemed, there was no apparition to be found.

In the glare cast by the dying fire, Rumplestiltskin realized that his son's shadow, which he believed had been absent since Hook's demise, had reappeared, albeit it remained unnaturally faint. Countless years dealing with magic told him that this could be a positive sign, that the boy was beginning to overcome the darkness threatening to destroy him, and the man could not suppress the hope which sparked within him.  

"Bae," Rumplestiltskin murmured in relief, placing a hand on his son's forearm. Baelfire jerked away from the touch, releasing a low hiss as the movement agitated his healing ribs. Hurt momentarily flashed across Rumplestiltskin's features, but it was soon eclipsed by concern as his eyes again traced the dark bruises along his son's chest.

"Please, son, it won't hurt so much if we bind—"

"What, afraid to watch me suffer from the injuries _you_ inflicted?" Baelfire snapped, fixing the man with a steely glare.

Rumplestiltskin winced slightly at the question, guilt settling like lead in his stomach as he thought of all the pain he had caused his son, unwittingly or not.

Again the boy's demeanor seemed to transform, his angry features softening into an expression that Rumplestiltskin imagined likely mirrored his own.

"I'm sorry," Baelfire murmured shamefacedly, "I didn't mean that."

"I know," Rumplestiltskin responded softly. He watched his son for a moment, before reaching out to readjust the bindings. Silence fell between them as Rumplestiltskin lifted the strip of cloth to wrap it about the boy's torso.

"I can't do this," Baelfire blurted despairingly, leaning away again and pulling the bandage from his father's grip, though the gesture appeared to be more out of anguish and shame than anger.  He lowered his head, his gaze settling on the blankets bundled at his lap.

"Don't say that, Bae."

The boy did not acknowledge his father's words, and a long pause passed before he opened his mouth to speak again.

"Please, go," Baelfire whispered, his shoulders sinking under the weight of his struggle.

Rumplestiltskin inhaled deeply, wearily scrubbing a hand across his face.  His eyes focused on his son once more, but the boy refused to meet his gaze.

After a long silence, Rumplestiltskin lifted himself from his seat, turning about to face the entrance to the cabin.  With a last glance at his aggrieved son over his shoulder, he walked over to the doorway.

Before his foot could cross the threshold, however, he froze. A warm breeze suddenly wafted over the land, rustling the leaves so that they all reflected the golden rays of the setting sun, and transforming the forest into an iridescent canvas of light. Besides its entrancing beauty, the sight struck something within Rumplestiltskin, and he stared helplessly as a memory sprang to the forefront of his mind.

_A harsh command from the mouth of a midwife pierced the air, followed by one last moan of pain, and then the most beautiful sound met Rumplestiltskin's ears: the strong, healthy wail of his newborn son.  His form quivering with unbridled love and joy and relief, Rumplestiltskin felt two hot tears spill from his eyes as the infant was placed in his arms, squirming restlessly in his blankets. Too enraptured with the sight of his son's tiny pink face to look away, he heard rather than saw the midwife return to his wife to tend to her and remove the soiled sheets._

_Rumplestiltskin crooned softly, rocking his arms in what he hoped was a soothing rhythm. His son quieted after a few more whimpers, before opening his eyes and gazing upon his father for the first time._

_The new father_ _could not stifle a soft gasp at the eyes peering up at him. In the glare of the firelight, they seemed to glow like two drops of liquid gold. But it was not this trick of the light which stole Rumplestiltskin's breath away; it was the sheer_ strength _that blazed in their depths. The child looked upon his father and the world not with the fear or confusion one would expect of someone so new, but with courage and a thirst for adventure._

_Staring down in amazement at the tiny person lying in his arms, Rumplestiltskin knew what name would suit him perfectly._

"Baelfire," he breathed out loud, an awed smile slowly stretching his lips. Chest feeling as though it were swelling with overwhelming pride, Rumplestiltskin turned away from the doorway. His son, his happiest memory, stared up at him, his face twisting into a bewildered frown as the man returned to his bedside.

"I told you to leave," the boy grated, frustration now joining the surprise in his gaze.

"I'm not going anywhere, son," Rumplestiltskin responded, sitting once more on the edge of the makeshift bed.

"Just go!" Baelfire insisted in a voice that shook with emotion, his cheeks flushing slightly.

"No," Rumplestiltskin answered firmly, watching as the boy sank a hand into his hair and sighed angrily, his gaze fixed on his lap. He gently placed his own hand beneath his son's chin, encouraging him to meet his eyes. "I'm not running anymore."

Baelfire stared at him, the anger draining from his eyes and leaving behind only shame, and the faintest glimmer of gratitude. He did not flinch away when Rumplestiltskin gently moved his hand to the boy's shoulder.

"Is it true what you said?" Baelfire asked finally in a voice so low Rumplestiltskin had to strain to hear it. The boy glanced down at his lap, before forcing himself once more to meet his father's gaze. "That...That you never stopped looking for me?"

"Yes," Rumplestiltskin breathed, giving his son's shoulder a light squeeze, **“** I would have done _anything_ to find you, Bae.” 

Rumplestiltskin held his son’s gaze a moment longer before he reached beneath the sash at his side, pulling out the silver bracelet he had retrieved from the ocean the previous night.  He stared down for a moment at where it lay in the palm of his hand, before returning his gaze to his son's.  Baelfire's eyes were wide with shock, and as Rumplestiltskin watched he saw guilt slowly slide into their depths.

"I...I was going back for it," the boy insisted, swallowing thickly as he glanced down at the silver piece.

"I know," Rumplestiltskin responded, unclasping the ends of the bracelet, "That's why I retrieved it. You hadn't given up on me. I'm not giving up on you."  He held the chain in front of him, silently requesting to return it to its proper place.

Hesitantly, the boy offered his father his right arm, and with a pang Rumplestiltskin noticed it was trembling.  He fastened the bracelet around Baelfire's wrist, smiling briefly before cradling his son's hand in both of his own, relieved when the boy made no move to pull away.

For a long moment, Baelfire remained silent, simply staring down at the glittering silver chain.  Then, after inhaling a shaky breath, he opened his mouth to speak.

"What I said before, about not needing a father—" He began tentatively, his voice laced with the remorse that reddened his ears and neck.

"It's all right," Rumplestiltskin interrupted calmly, causing the boy's gaze to snap up to his.

"No, it isn't," Baelfire said firmly, his jaw set as he stared into his father's eyes. "I lived without a father for so long, I thought I no longer needed one." He paused, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply, then shook his head. "But I was wrong. And I'm sorr-y."

Hearing his son's voice break on the last word sent a jolt of pain into Rumplestiltskin's heart, and he had to fight against the lump in his throat to say his next words.

"Oh, Bae..." Rumplestiltskin sighed, feeling as though all the angst that had built up between them over the years was finally rising to the surface, "I'm sorry, too. Not just for breaking our deal, and letting you go, but for all the things I said—"  

"You were only trying to help," Baelfire insisted, cutting him off, but Rumplestiltskin only shook his head.

"But I shouldn't have said them the way I did, son," he added sincerely. He looked down at their joined hands, his brow furrowing in remorse even as his lips formed a small smile. "If I could take back all the pain I put you through...Please believe me, I _would_."

Rumplestiltskin's throat constricted as tears prickled at the corners of his eyes. He had to summon all of his strength of will to keep them at bay, forcing himself to focus on his son and the words he had waited too long to say.  "I'm not asking you to forget what I did to you, Bae; the past is something we should learn from."

He lifted one of his hands and placed it lightly against Baelfire's chest, feeling the strong heartbeat thumping beneath his fingers.  Inhaling a quaking breath, he met his son's eyes.

"I know that I don't deserve a second chance," he choked, clearing his throat in a futile attempt to overcome the lump welling there, "But can you find it in your heart to forgive me?"

They stared at each other for what could have been seconds or years, only silence passing between them now. Slowly, so that Rumplestiltskin at first thought he had imagined it, Baelfire's eyes filled with tears. His bottom lip twitched and his face began to flush pink as innumerable emotions overwhelmed him. 

Moved so deeply that his own eyes swam with unshed moisture, Rumplestiltskin lifted the hand that lay above his son's heart and cupped the boy's cheek.  A sound caught between a sigh and a sob escaped him when Baelfire clutched his father's hand in one of his own trembling ones, pressing it closer to his face.

"Papa," Baelfire whispered, his breath catching in his throat. He pressed his lips tightly together and slowly nodded his head, granting his father the forgiveness he thought he would never have the strength to give.

Relief surged so powerfully within Rumplestiltskin, he did not know whether to laugh or weep. His eyelids slid closed, and for a long moment he simply basked in the feel of his son's hand wrapped about his own. A _second chance_ ; it had been all he'd wanted for centuries...And now they could finally have it.

Feeling almost light-headed with hope, Rumplestiltskin opened his eyes.  His son still stared at him, his brown irises practically concealed behind the tears gathered there. 

"You have always been so brave," Rumplestiltskin praised, the corners of his lips lifting in a tender smile, "I could never ask for a better son."

Baelfire's face flushed a deeper shade of pink and he seemed to find it difficult to hold his father's gaze.  He cleared his throat, blinking his eyes in a frantic attempt to clear away the tears before they could fall.  With a low cough, he gently removed Rumplestiltskin's hand from his cheek, turning so that his legs hung over the opposite side of the bed.  He rose gingerly from his seat, trying to stifle a sniffle with his hand. 

The man felt a twinge of dread as he realized what his son was doing: he was restoring his defenses, lifting the walls on which he so often relied in moments of vulnerability.  The boy's shoulders shook slightly, and it was the knowledge that such movement was caused by repressed sobs that inspired Rumplestiltskin into action.

"You don't have to do that anymore," he said quietly, rising from his own seat, his features softening as his eyes focused on his son.

"Do what?" The boy asked, his voice hoarse with barely contained emotion.  Rumplestiltskin moved to the end of the bed so that only a few paces stood between them.

"Be the man I should have been."

Baelfire hesitantly turned around, his jaw clenched tight as his eyes once more welled with unshed tears. Gaze fixed unblinkingly on his son, Rumplestiltskin slowly stepped closer, his expression becoming even more tender when the boy's chin began to quiver.

"Let go, Bae," Rumplestiltskin murmured, "I've got you."

Baelfire shook his head, involuntarily taking one step backward. "I can't, Papa," he choked.

"Yes, you can," Rumplestiltskin said fervently, gazing intently into his son's face. His feet carried him two steps closer, but he came no nearer than that, allowing his son to determine his own fate.

Baelfire's breathing increased, sounding closer to a series of gasps. His chest heaved as he continued to step backward, stopping only when his back softly collided with the cabin wall.  He stared ahead unblinkingly, and then his expression crumpled as a solitary tear spilled onto his cheek. A soft gasp escaped the boy and he swiped at the tear with his finger, glancing down at the drop of moisture before meeting his father's gaze once more, something like apprehension whirling in his own eyes.

"It's all right," Rumplestiltskin encouraged, traversing the space remaining between them until he was but an arm's length away from his son.  He slowly reached out a hand toward his son’s shoulder, and something within the boy seemed to break.  

Breath hitching in his throat, Baelfire slid down the wall, one more tear rolling down his cheek. And then another. Rumplestiltskin followed him, crouching so that their gazes never wavered from each other's. When they both reached the floor, Baelfire slouched against the wall with his father kneeling before him, the boy finally allowed himself to weep.

A strangled sob escaped his throat, and he reached out a hand to grasp his father's shirt as the latter leaned forward to embrace him. Arms wrapped about his son, Rumplestiltskin stroked the boy's back as he began to cry in earnest.  Although each despairing sound pierced Rumplestiltskin like a blade, he could not help but feel grateful, and so very relieved, that his brave son had found the strength to let go of all the pain he had accumulated over the years, _forgive_ him, and trust him to be the father he deserved.

"I'm sorry," Baelfire sobbed into his father's chest, his shoulders tensing as he prepared to withdraw from the man's embrace, "I'm s-so sorry—"  

"I'm so proud of you," Rumplestiltskin breathed, keeping his embrace firm as he pressed a kiss to the crown of his son's head.

Immediately Baelfire abandoned his attempt to withdraw, clutching his father's shirt in both hands and pressing himself even closer. His weeping intensified, each gasp and sob shaking his entire frame as any resistance he might have been holding onto crumbled completely. Rumplestiltskin squeezed his eyes shut as he gently rocked his son, his heart throbbing at the realization that his boy had finally lowered his defenses and could now begin to _heal_.

"My beautiful boy..."

A soft pattering echoed outside, and Rumplestiltskin opened his eyes to glance at the cabin window: a mild rain had begun to fall. There was no thunder, nor harsh winds to accompany it; only the soothing sound of droplets plopping quietly on all that lay below. The sun, though very near to the horizon, still shone brilliantly through the tree canopy, its beauty seeming only enhanced by the sudden shift in weather.  The golden rays reflected off of everything the rain touched, and Rumplestiltskin was once again reminded of the first time he looked into his son's eyes and saw something not only worthy to admire _,_ but to _strive_ to be.

He ran his hand soothingly up and down his son's back as the boy continued to sob in his arms, his heart beating with a new strength, one he had not noticed with such profundity until now:

The strength of a father never willing to let go.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of our favorite chapters, for obvious reasons, and I can't wait until it's adapted to audiobook for your enjoyment.
> 
> A trailer is in the making. To get updates on this audiobook (or if you want to check out others I've produced), SUBSCRIBE [HERE](https://www.youtube.com/user/Promise171) to my YouTube channel, and click on that button to receive alerts! ;) 
> 
> All our characters are cast with talented voice actors, so get excited about this audiobook! Oh, and we would love to hear from you! 
> 
> ~  
> Warrior717


	35. Chapter 35

Although two harvest moons now shone high in the sky, father and son still sat curled together in an embrace.  Baelfire's sobs had taken a long time to quiet, slowly transforming into soft hiccups, and eventually fading to silence.  All the while, Rumplestiltskin had not once ceased rubbing soothing circles between the boy's shoulder blades, barely registering the way his own muscles ached from slouching for so long against a wall. He had vowed to be the strength, the _father_ his son deserved, and he would keep his promise.

Head leaning against his son's, Rumplestiltskin both felt and heard when Baelfire's breathing grew gentle and even.  A cautious glance at the boy's tear-streaked face confirmed his suspicions: he had fallen asleep, snug in his father's arms.

A light smile curved the man's lips at the memory of countless nights in which Baelfire had done the very same thing as a toddler. The little boy had not a particularly serious fear of the night even then, but at times he had seemed to grow lonely atop his straw mattress, calling his papa over and pleading for a story or song as he slid into his arms.  Warmth filled Rumplestiltskin's heart at the notion that he could still offer his son some semblance of comfort and security, even after all that had transpired.

However, too many hours slumped against a cabin wall would not do either of their backs any favors in the morning.  So, as loathe as he was to untangle himself from his son's grasp, Rumplestiltskin uncurled the boy's fists from his shirt.  He slid an arm beneath Baelfire's knees, resting the other against his back, and carefully pulled himself to his feet.  The boy groaned slightly, his eyelids fluttering, but exhaustion apparently won out in the end as his head lolled against Rumplestiltskin's shoulder and he remained silent.

Gently, so as not to startle the exhausted boy awake or jostle his healing ribs, Rumplestiltskin stepped over to the makeshift bed and laid his son on top of it. He lifted one of the lighter quilts and carefully spread it over his son; although it was not terribly cold outside, Rumplestiltskin did not want to risk Baelfire catching a chill now that his fever had finally broken.

His task completed, Rumplestiltskin allowed himself a long moment to simply gaze upon the boy he had for too long feared he would never see again. The man could not withhold a relieved sigh when his son appeared to sleep peacefully, neither stirring fretfully nor whimpering at some unbidden nightmare.

He passed his hand through the boy's dark curls once more, smiling softly down at him, before quietly turning and exiting the cabin.  Belle was undoubtedly waiting for an update on Baelfire's condition; she had glanced inside the main cabin once while escorting the other children to their beds, and upon seeing the father and son huddled on the floor, had decided not to interrupt, though her blue eyes had held a silent promise to confront Rumplestiltskin with her questions later.

Rumplestiltskin had not heard her descend the vine stairs after tucking Nibs and Tootles into their beds, and so ascended the steps leading to that cabin.  Although all of the Lost Boys were terribly concerned for their leader, the two youngest seemed the least consolable, and Belle had needed to cajole them to bed with stories and lullabies. Pausing just beneath the cabin's hatch, Rumplestiltskin listened carefully for any sign that she was currently lulling Nibs and Tootles to sleep, not wanting to cause any unnecessary excitement.  When only silence met his ears, he gingerly lifted the door.

A wave of awe and love with a whisper of desire coursed through him at the sight which greeted his tired eyes.  Belle sat on a blanket in the center of the cabin, her knees tucked beneath her and her right hand delicately running a comb through her thick, russet tresses. Beside her knees rested a small silver mirror, tarnished with age but still functional. Beams of yellow light from Neverland's two moons filtered through the only window, catching in her hair and reflecting her natural auburn highlights. Around and above Belle glowed the cerulean mushrooms that had taken root in the cracks and seams of the cabin's walls, and in their soft light his true love appeared more enchantress than woman.

Rumplestiltskin chuckled softly; well, she had always enchanted him, from the moment she chipped his until-then replaceable china.

Belle looked up at the sound, her lips curving into a smile when her eyes met his. Rumplestiltskin returned the smile, carefully pulling himself fully through the hatch. He cautiously closed it behind him, taking care not to disturb the two boys curled together and snoring lightly in the opposite corner.  After placing the borrowed fishbone comb and hand mirror beneath her beaded belt, Belle patted the space before her on the blanket, motioning for Rumplestiltskin to sit.

He followed her suggestion, seating himself before her and almost instinctually taking her hands in his own.  His thumbs grazed back and forth across her knuckles, and she gave his fingers a gentle squeeze, before worry suddenly creased her brow.

"How is he?" She asked, her tone urgent even though her voice was soft. "Did he—Is he going to—"   

"His fever’s broken. He's going to be fine," Rumplestiltskin answered, unable to keep back a grin at the wonderful turn of events, "Truly."

Belle visibly relaxed at the news, releasing a breathy, relieved laugh as she beamed up at him.  Rumplestiltskin shared in her joy, his eyes bright with it, before something more subdued entered his gaze.  The strength his son had exhibited amazed him, and he once more felt breathless with admiration for the brave boy.

"He forgave me," Rumplestiltskin breathed in an astonished tone, almost to himself. Belle, however, did not seem as surprised by the revelation.  She removed one of her hands from his own, placing it tenderly against the side of his face.

"Of course he did," she said softly, a smile still brightening her features, "He loves you."

The corners of Rumplestiltskin's lips twitched lightly at the reminder, but the sentiment did not quite reach his eyes. "Even though I've given him plenty of reasons not to," he stated gravely.

"People make mistakes, Rum," she countered straightforwardly, meeting his gaze intently, "But there is always a chance to make things right. And you've done just that.”

Rumplestiltskin stared at her, drinking in her words like a man dying of thirst. Belle, however, seemed to interpret his awed silence as disagreement, sighing lightly and shaking her head. 

"There is so much goodness in you, so much to _love_ about you," she whispered fervently, raising her other hand so that she cupped his face in her palms, "When will you see that?"

So many emotions welled up within Rumplestiltskin, he could not even hope to put them into words. His Belle, his brave, beautiful, bookish Belle, gazed at him with such open sincerity and love, he could not find the will nor the strength to refute her words.

"You spent a lifetime—several, really—looking for your son," she continued, her cheeks flushing lightly with the passion of her whispered words, "You've sacrificed so much, just for the chance to be in his life again, and you’ve _changed_."Her turquoise eyes became glassy with unshed tears, but she blinked them back, rising to her knees so that her face was perfectly even with Rumplestiltskin's.  "Baelfire is blessed to have you as a father. _Any_ child would be."  

"Oh, Belle..." The sheer magnitude of the meaning behind Belle's words left Rumplestiltskin breathless once more, his throat uncomfortably tight with wave after wave of love and joy cresting within him. He closed his eyes and covered the petite hands framing his face with his own, turning his head so that he could place a soft, lingering kiss on her left palm. 

He heard Belle's breath hitch in her throat, and at first worried that he had perhaps offended her, but a moment later she ran her thumb against his cheekbone, encouraging him to open his eyes.  He did so, and when their gazes met his heart began to pound at the ardor with which she regarded him.

The sweet, chaste kiss Rumplestiltskin had pressed to the flesh of Belle's palm sent her blood singing in her veins.  There was so much adoration behind the gesture, and in his mahogany eyes now, she wondered at her ability not to weep at the wonderful feelings he stirred in her. She let her gaze travel over his features, taking in the strong lines of his jaw, the sharp angle of his nose, and the sweet lines that appeared beside his eyes and lips when he offered a smile she was certain was meant for her alone.

Their faces had somehow drawn closer, until they were practically sharing one breath, though neither knew who had leaned in first. Belle felt her eyelids grow heavy with the desire to close as she watched Rumplestiltskin's gaze slowly trace her cheeks, before settling on her mouth.

"Tinker Belle?" A sleepy child's voice called from across the cabin.

Both Rumplestiltskin and Belle released low sighs of disappointment, and their eyes met briefly in a silent laugh.  Belle gently squeezed Rumplestiltskin's hand, before rising and turning to walk to the messy-haired, weary-eyed boy peering up at her.  She knelt down beside him, watching as he tried to rub the tiredness from his eyes.  Nibs lay a foot away, snoring lightly with a small pillow over his spiky-haired head. Tootles pushed himself up with one arm, casting a quick glance at his sleeping friend, before opening his mouth to speak.

"Where's Peter? Is he okay?" He asked in a hushed voice, his large green eyes staring worriedly into Belle's as he struggled into a sitting position.

"He's going to be just fine," she responded quietly, smiling down at him and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder to encourage him to remain in his bed.  The youngest of the Lost Boys lied back down, but his expression did not indicate that he was fully convinced all was well with his dear friend and role model

Rumplestiltskin carefully pulled himself to his feet and approached them, crouching beside where Belle knelt. "I told you my boy was brave, remember?" He asked the Lost Boy gently.  "He's going to be back on his feet before you know it."

"But, I heard him crying," Tootles exclaimed, fighting to keep his voice low enough so as not to wake Nibs.

"Shh, he needed it, that's all," Rumplestiltskin responded comfortingly, not missing the affection in Belle's eyes as she watched him soothe the fretful boy, "He's had a very difficult few days."

"Did you make him feel better?" Tootles asked, gazing wide-eyed between the two adults, "Peter always makes me feel better when I cry."

"Aye, I think so. He's sleeping now, as should you be, little one," he said softly, ruffling the tiny boy's sandy curls. 

Tootles smiled at the gesture, stifling a giggle behind his hand. His mirth did not last, however, and something graver entered his youthful eyes.

"You're going to leave us, aren't you?" He asked miserably, reaching out for one of Belle's hands. Belle felt her throat clench at his words, holding his hand snugly in her own.

"I'm not going to have a mother anymore," he added in a whisper, staring down at the hand wrapped around his own.

At a loss for words and feeling as though her heart were breaking, Belle met Rumplestiltskin's gaze. He, too, seemed not to know what to say, his brow furrowed in empathy for the despairing boy.

Belle cleared her throat quietly, blinking back the tears prickling at the corners of her eyes.  She ran the tips of her fingers through the boy's hair, pushing it back from his forehead in attempts to soothe him as much as herself.  "Hush now, darling. We'll talk about everything in the morning," she said gently, relieved when he nodded with a sigh, not noticing the quiver in her voice.

"With Peter?" Tootles asked suddenly, his eyes hopeful.

"With Peter," Belle promised, rubbing her thumb across the back of the boy's tiny hand. "Would you like a story to help you back to sleep?"

Tootles nodded again, his mouth opening in a wide yawn as he nestled his head back against the pillow. "Can it have a dragon in it?" He asked tiredly, his eyelids already beginning to droop.

"Of course," Belle responded, smiling tenderly even though her eyes were still shadowed with sadness.

Rumplestiltskin remained by her side as she weaved a tale about a little boy who grew to be the best dragon tamer in the world.  Tootles struggled to keep his eyes open, blinking and squinting, but very soon the length of time between when he lowered his eyelids and when he lifted them again grew longer and longer.  Perhaps ten minutes into the story, they slid closed and remained so.  Belle continued for another few minutes, her voice dropping until it was merely a whisper, before she stopped speaking altogether.

Her gaze met Rumplestiltskin's then, and they both nodded as they gingerly rose to their feet and tiptoed to the hatch.  Rumplestiltskin lifted it, stepping through and holding it up so that Belle could descend the steps untroubled.  Once both their heads had cleared the entryway, Rumplestiltskin quietly shut the hatch.  As quietly as they could, they descended the stairs wrapped around the trunk of the oak tree.  As they passed the main cabin, they both paused to peer inside, checking on the boy sleeping inside.  Once they determined he was slumbering peacefully, they turned about again and finished their descent into the clearing.

Embers still smoldered in the fire pit, and Rumplestiltskin moved to stoke them back into flame while Belle wordlessly seated herself on a nearby log.  He threw some more kindling into the pit, watching as they caught fire and filled the glade with flickering orange light.  Nodding in satisfaction, he turned to Belle, his eyebrows knitting in concern as he took in the way she bit her lower lip, eyes unfocused and filled with sadness.

"Belle, what's wrong?" He asked worriedly, striding over and sitting beside her.  She hesitantly met his gaze, releasing her bottom lip from between her teeth.  Her chest heaved with each breath and she seemed to struggle to find the words she wanted to say, her mouth opening and closing several times.

Finally, after swallowing thickly and shaking her head, she managed to regain enough of her composure to speak. "We can't leave them, Rum," she whispered frantically, her eyes boring into his, "Baelfire loves those boys, and they love him...and _I_ love them and—"

Rumplestiltskin gently placed two fingertips on her lips, pausing her speech before she could work herself to tears. "I know," he said quietly, the corners of his lips twitching when she gasped, "We won't leave them here. If they want to come, there are plenty of spare rooms in my mansion. We'll find them good homes; some of them may have family still living."

Belle's answering smile could have outshone the stars, and Rumplestiltskin could not withhold a light chuckle as she threw her arms about his shoulders, nearly knocking him off the log.  He returned the embrace, one hand at the small of her back and the other buried in her cascading curls.  For a long moment they held each other, enjoying the feel of each other's chest rising and falling with each breath. They pulled away slowly, their gazes locked as they remained sitting only a whisper apart.

The first chords of Neverland's night music floated into the air, caused by the gentle swaying of the cattails surrounding the clearing.  A long, hushed note issued forth from the choir of vines hanging from the branches of the willows, its volume increasing as a breeze wafted across the land. It had been days since anyone had heard the mysterious melodies, and judging by the enthusiasm with which the breeze carried the notes, they had been sorely missed.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Belle breathed, closing her eyes for a moment to revel in the sweet, lilting sounds. Rumplestiltskin let his gaze trace her features, the elegant curve of her jaw, the shadows her long eyelashes cast on her cheeks...

"Yes," he whispered as her eyes opened and met his, "Very beautiful."

Rumplestiltskin brought the hand buried in her tresses to the side of her face, the pads of his fingers grazing her neck in the process and feeling her pulse jump in response. Her skin was silk beneath his fingertips, and he could not resist lightly running his thumb across her bottom lip.  She stared up at him, her blue eyes bright with passion as they glinted in the dancing firelight.

Pulse racing, Rumplestiltskin slowly leaned forward, stopping only when his lips met the smooth skin of Belle's forehead. He lingered for a moment, feeling her hands slide along his chest to rest on his shoulders, before pulling away. Marveling at how her auburn curls reflected the warm light of the fire, he gently trailed his fingertips along her temples, encouraging her eyelids to slide closed. Ever so softly, he placed a kiss on her right cheek, then her left, breathing in her sweet scent and enjoying the warmth of the light blush he felt rising in her flesh.  When his gaze settled on her mouth, he slowly closed his eyes.

Then finally, after decades of believing he would never be able to do so again, he pressed his lips to hers. 

They both inhaled shaky breaths as their kiss lingered, so reminiscent in its sweetness of the only other one they had shared. But this time, there were no underlying suspicions of betrayal, no fears of a ploy to strip Rumplestiltskin of his power, because he had none, and Belle loved him regardless, truly, wholeheartedly _loved_ him...

Belle lifted a hand to delicately cup his cheek, a quiet, needy sound rising in the back of her throat that Rumplestiltskin answered by pressing closer. Something within both of them seemed to break at the movement, and in the next moment their arms were wrapped so tightly around each other it was a wonder they could draw breath at all. Sinking his hand once more into Belle's sleek locks, Rumplestiltskin slowly parted his lips **…**

He was certain his heart skipped a beat when her tongue tenderly touched his, rewarding him with her sweet, ambrosial taste. Overwhelmed by the innocence and devotion behind it, Rumplestiltskin imagined he might fly, had he any desire to leave her embrace. 

The cool breeze blew across them again, and all at once Rumplestiltskin felt an entirely different sensation spread throughout his being.  It was cold but not unpleasant, and seemed to radiate from his heart, as though it were fleeing the love that pounded there.  The wind around them increased slightly, carrying even more soaring notes of Neverland's night music. But Rumplestiltskin barely registered the change, too enraptured by the intimacy of Belle's closeness.

When something at his waist suddenly began to grow warm, however, his blissful oblivion began to ebb.  He was loathe to part from his true love, but when the heat intensified until it was nearly unbearable, he was forced to pull away slightly.

"It's hot," he mumbled, his thoughts, scattered from their kissing, desperately trying to comprehend what could possibly be the source.

"It is rather warm," Belle breathed with a soft laugh, before bringing her lips once more to his.  Rumplestiltskin briefly indulged himself once more in her kiss, before reluctantly forcing his eyelids to open when the object at his side grew even hotter.

"No, I mean _this_ ," he said more clearly, glancing down and disentangling his hand from Belle's tresses so he could remove the dagger from beneath the sash.  He kept his other hand against the small of her back, unwilling to allow too much distance between them.   Brow delicately creased, Belle glanced down at the object in his hand.  She carefully reached out a hand to touch it, but paused with a gasp when the black writing on its surface began to change.

They both watched in amazement as the letters inscribed on the blade's surface melted together, before sliding off of the metal like oil.  As the black substance dripped off of the sharp point and onto the ground, the entire knife's appearance began to alter.  Rust gathered along the grooved edges, and the paint covering the hilt chipped and peeled away.  It was as though the dagger was finally displaying its true age.

The meaning behind it all suddenly clicked in Rumplestiltskin's mind, and he could not stop the relieved laugh that next floated out of his throat.  He jumped to his feet, feeling as though he could perform a jig in his elation.  Belle rose to her feet as well, one eyebrow raised at his behavior and a small smile stretching her lips.

"The curse," he said in response to her silent query, staring down at the now useless weapon as another note of laughter escaped him, "It's _broken_."

Belle gasped at his words, before releasing a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. In his peripheral vision he saw her bring a hand to the side of his face in astonishment. Rumplestiltskin turned the knife over in his hands, reveling in how aged and feeble it now appeared, his smile stretching more broadly than he imagined it had in centuries.  When he finally did lift his gaze to Belle's, his smile grew puzzled at the expression of abject awe she wore.

"What is it?" He asked, quirking an eyebrow as she practically gaped at him.

"Rum..." She breathed, lifting a hand to slide the tips of her fingers across his forehead and down his cheek.  Her turquoise eyes eagerly traced his features, wonder whirling in their depths.  She did not appear to hear his question, continuing her soft exploration with her fingertips.

"Belle?" Rumplestiltskin prompted, holding back a chuckle at her bizarre behavior, "Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

"No," Belle murmured somewhat dazedly, staring up at him, before shaking her head and smiling, "I'm going to show you."

She excitedly fumbled with the old hand mirror tucked beneath her beaded belt, extracting it and returning her brilliant gaze to Rumplestiltskin's. Slowly, she held it up before his face, and the man only just registered the cool metal of the dagger slipping from his grasp and landing with a thud on the ground as the image reflected in the looking glass shocked him into speechlessness.

The lines of hardship that had indented Rumplestiltskin's forehead had almost completely vanished, the creases at the corners of his eyes appeared shallower. But perhaps most startling of all was the brightness of his eyes and the ease with which his smiles appeared, no longer haunted by the shadows of his past.  He looked perhaps ten years younger, and felt as though centuries of anguish and loneliness had been lifted from his heart.

"What magic is this?" Rumplestiltskin heard himself ask in a voice barely louder than a whisper as he brought a hand to his cheek, though he already knew the answer.  It was not magic that created this change; it was his liberation _from_ magic, and from the crippling price it demanded.

Once more he felt a celebratory urge to leap or jig. But, preferring not to risk falling into the healthily burning fire pit or looking a fool, he settled for something even better: another kiss to his true love's lips. 

Belle released the most beautiful little sigh when his lips caressed hers. The tiny mirror clattered to the ground as he lifted both hands to cup her face, inhaling deeply when she entwined her arms around his neck.  The sudden closeness set their nerve endings aflame, and their mouths met and danced with greater fervor.  When Rumplestiltskin felt the cool flesh of Belle's palm slide beneath his shirt to settle above his racing heart, sending a surge of desire down his spine, he knew they were careening toward a bridge they were not ready to cross just yet.

Gently, he pulled away from their kiss, covering Belle's hands with his own.  Her eyes flashed in confusion and worry, but he soothed her fears with a swift kiss to her knuckles as he struggled to slow his breathing.

“I want this,” Rumplestiltskin began, clearing his throat when he realized how hoarse it sounded, “I have for a long time.”

His mind whirled back to their brief moment of intimacy in the boys "loot" cabin, to the morning when she had excitedly hugged him after he had shown her the Dark Castle's library, to the time when she had fallen into his arms after tearing down his curtains... His blood had sung in his veins at her touch then, just as it did now.

“Me too,” Belle whispered, and the fierce desire Rumplestiltskin glimpsed in her eyes was enough to send his heart sprinting in his chest again.  Never in this life would he understand how it was possible someone as exquisite as she could love him, let alone want him.  But she did, and he would ensure that he cherished what they had for as long as he lived, and beyond if possible.

“You told me once," he continued quietly, "That love was layered, a mystery to be uncovered."

He traced the fingertips of one hand down her cheek, smiling softly at how amazed she seemed that he had remembered her beautifully honest words. 

"And one day, when you are fully mine," he continued, pressing a chaste kiss to her forehead. "And I am fully yours," he pressed another kiss to the tip of her nose, grinning at her answering chuckle, “We can peel back every," he kissed the right corner of her mouth, withdrawing before she could catch his lips with her own. "Single," he whispered, kissing the left corner. "Layer."

His mouth met hers in another long, lingering kiss that he hoped would convey all the emotion he could not capture with words.

When they parted again Rumplestiltskin felt a stab of concern as he watched a large tear spill over Belle's long eyelashes and slide down her face. But he soon realized she was smiling, her slightly swollen lips trembling as she gazed at him with more love than he would ever feel he deserved.  His own throat constricting, Rumplestiltskin tenderly wiped away her tear with the pad of his thumb, before resting his palm against her cheek.

"I love you," he breathed, " _So_ _much_."

"I love you, too," Belle responded shakily, "More than you'll ever know."

They simultaneously leaned closer, wrapping their arms about each other in a tight embrace.  Rumplestiltskin buried his face in her hair, feeling her do the same to his neck as they swayed lightly on the spot.  He could not withhold a sigh at the delight it was to have her here, safe and whole, in his arms. The music swelling around them quieted to a gentle symphony of forest sounds, filling them with a pervasive sense of peace.

It could have been seconds or centuries later when they pulled apart, their fingers entwining as they seated themselves before the gently crackling fire.  They situated themselves as close to each other as possible as they leaned their backs against the log, Belle laying her head upon Rumplestiltskin's shoulder, and he laying his atop her chestnut curls.  When Belle shivered at the caress of another cool breeze, Rumplestiltskin wrapped his arm about her, smiling as she released a soft, contented sigh. Wordlessly they watched the flames, their eyelids gradually growing heavy as their minds conjured dreams of love, their future, and most importantly:

A new happy memory.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEW! The "Hooked" audiobook trailer has now been released!! You can watch/listen to it [HERE.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GPxOY4gZNfk&hd=1)
> 
> Also, you can follow our Facebook Page for frequent updates about this production [HERE.](https://www.facebook.com/Warrior717Productions/)
> 
> We hope you're enjoying the story! :)
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> ~  
> Warrior717


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever wondered why that obstinate shadow of Peter Pan's couldn't stay put? Well, here's our theory. ;)

Neverland's night music had quieted into a gentle hum, its tempo matching the lazy twinkling of the stars shining above the sleeping couple. Their arms were wrapped around each other, the woman's head nestled sweetly on the man's chest as they slumbered peacefully.

Suddenly, a loud crash followed by an indignant shout echoed from the cabin above them, the very one in which Baelfire was supposed to be resting.  Rumplestiltskin and Belle started awake, their blinking eyes wide with worry as they glanced at each other.  The fire in the pit had long since died, and they relied on each other's grasp to pull themselves safely to their feet in the darkness surrounding them.  Eyes narrowed, Rumplestiltskin frantically scanned the ground for his dagger; it was completely devoid of magic now, but he imagined it could still cut through flesh rather efficiently, and there was no way of knowing what sort of danger his son was in now.

He found it lying a short distance away and retrieved it with haste, tucking it beneath the sash at his waist. His eyes met Belle's, and in the next moment they were racing toward the stairs, ascending them as quickly as they could while still shaking the sleep from their minds.

"Stop that!" They heard the boy's voice cry as they neared the cabin door, and another crash sounded. 

The sight which met their eyes once they passed the threshold was one they had least expected: Baelfire was out of bed, chasing what appeared to be his very own—Rumplestiltskin could hardly make sense of it— _shadow_ as it darted about the room completely independent of its master. His son's hands were unraveling the loose bandages hanging at his bare waist, letting them fall to the floor as his eyes fixed the elusive shape with a predatory glare. 

The boy, unaware of his audience, leapt onto a small table, and it appeared he had forgotten he could no longer fly, for in the next moment he launched himself high into the air toward the shadow that was perched on the ceiling and gesturing tauntingly for the boy to come closer.  For a few suspended seconds the boy hovered in the air, before crashing back down to the floor in a sprawled heap.  His shadow, which remained on the ceiling, pantomimed laughing as Baelfire hissed in pain and rubbed his now scraped knee.

"What's going on in—" Aibreann's voice cut off as she alighted on the windowsill, her tiny eyes wide with shock as she took in the overturned table, the scowling teenage boy, and the silhouette still laughing on the ceiling.

"It appears my son's shadow has developed a…” The corners of Rumplestiltskin’s mouth twitched slightly in disbelief at the realization, and he fought a bizarre urge to laugh despite how uneasy the idea made him, “mind of its _own_?"

As though in agreement with the man's words, the shadow descended onto an adjacent wall and took an elaborate bow.  Rumplestiltskin heard Belle suppress a soft chuckle behind her hand.

"Not for long," Baelfire threatened, pulling himself to his feet and striding angrily toward the wall. Anticipating the attack, the shadow doubled itself in size and struck a menacing pose, raising its left arm and the hook now attached to the end.

"Oh, knock it off," the boy scoffed, reaching out and catching hold of the shadow's foot.  It was then that Rumplestiltskin realized how different the consistency and shade of the silhouette were in comparison to a typical shadow.  It was darker and somewhat opaque, so that when it stretched out over the carvings on the cabin wall, they became less legible, as though being glimpsed through a film. 

The sight was so unbelievably bizarre, Rumplestiltskin, Belle, and Aibreann could only watch in bewildered silence as the boy heaved the shadow from the wall.  Grunting slightly with the effort, Balefire pulled back his silhouette's torso until it was stretched tight between his hands.  He slowly turned, his gaze determinedly settling on a small chest of drawers across the cabin. He squinted one eye, pulling the shadow even tauter like the slingshot, and then released it. With a triumphant laugh he watched as the dark figure soared straight into the top drawer, and the other three could not withhold their own chuckles as it rattled angrily inside.

Baelfire darted over to the drawer and braced his back against it before the shadow could succeed in pushing it open. Only then did he seem to fully realize he had an audience, his cheeks turning pink as he grinned somewhat sheepishly at them. His gaze traveling between all three of them, the boy asked, “Could someone please explain—"

His voice momentarily cut off as the shadow gave a particularly powerful shove at the drawer, almost propelling Baelfire from it. "How _this_ ," he continued with a disbelieving laugh, redoubling his effort to contain the silhouette as it pushed forward again, "Is even possible?"

Finally shaking himself from his shock, Rumplestiltskin strode over to his son, glancing down at the drawer and taking notice of a slightly rusted keyhole.

"It can lock," he observed, bracing his hands against the drawer to help the boy keep it shut, "Do you know where the key is?"

Balefire shook his head, opening his mouth to speak, but before he could release a single sound Belle suddenly gasped.

"I think I do! Tootles was playing with one a couple days ago," she said excitedly, hurrying over to the corner in which Tootles and Nibs preferred to play.  Aibreann flew over to her, allowing the light of her aura to illuminate the cluttered area. Belle rifled through the handmade teddy bears and carved wood pieces piled there, her brow furrowed in concentration, before straightening with a victorious "ah ha!"  In her hand she held a tiny iron key, its edges tinged red from age.

She shuffled over to the father and son, waiting for a moment in which the shadow stilled its movements enough for her to insert the key.  After a few more fervent struggles on the shadow's part, it seemed to require a moment of rest.  Belle took advantage of the pause, sliding the key into the lock and twisting it until a satisfying click sounded.

Hesitantly, Rumplestiltskin and Baelfire stepped away from the chest of drawers, their expressions turning slightly smug when the shadow unsuccessfully continued its escape attempt.  They both simultaneously ran a hand through their hair, staring in abject disbelief at the rattling drawer.  Belle might have laughed at their similar behavior, but at that moment she caught the concern in Aibreann's gaze, and her mirth was replaced with worry.

They all kept their eyes on the drawer, watching as the rattling grew feebler, before finally coming to a stop altogether.

"It's about time you gave up," Baelfire exclaimed indignantly, and his lips could not seem to decide whether to smile or scowl in the independent shadow's direction. 

"So, what do we do with it now?" The boy asked with a half-smile, turning to face the two adults and fairy watching him.  Rumplestiltskin shook his head, breathing a soft chuckle at how nonchalant his son could be even in the face of something as mind-boggling as a self-governing silhouette.

"Well, perhaps we should figure out what _it_ is, first," the man responded, before turning his attention to the only other person in the room who had experience with magic.

Aibreann met his gaze, her lips pursed in thought and forehead creased with alarm. She looked once more in the direction of the drawer, shaking her head lightly.

"I don't understand it," she murmured half to herself, "But it feels...dark."

"It's just my shadow, Aib," Baelfire scoffed, his expression slowly growing more serious when the others remained silent. "Right?"

"Has it ever been like this before, son?" Rumplestiltskin asked, moving closer to the chest of drawers.

"No," Baelfire responded, shaking his head, "It's never done anything like this before. It used to be just a normal shadow."

Rumplestiltskin gave him a long, searching look, frowning slightly in concentration. "It's been missing, these past couple days," the man observed out loud, and his eyes suddenly brightened at a thought that followed. "Since Hook's death, I'd gather."

A sudden bang echoed from the drawer, apparently caused by the silhouette launching itself once more against the front. Belle started slightly at the noise, and for a moment they all stared at the shadow's makeshift prison, looking away only when it remained still.

Rumplestiltskin's mind suddenly recalled how the shadow had reappeared, fainter than normal, the previous evening, when his son had finally gained the upper hand in his internal struggle.  He was about to share this information out loud, when his son suddenly spoke.

"After Hook died," Baelfire began, rubbing at the back of his neck as he thought aloud, "I started to feel strange. Not only sick, but I had these…awful thoughts. And in my dreams, I was fighting him. But I wasn't _just me_ , I was Peter Pan."  He paused, scraping his hand over his face and releasing a low sigh, before looking up once more. "Could it be that—Do you think it was _inside_ me?" He cast a wary glance at the drawer as it rattled once more.  

Rumplestiltskin remained silent, although that was exactly what he had been speculating just now. The shadow was possibly another manifestation of the bitterness that had festered and become personified in Hook. While his son had been the blissfully oblivious Peter Pan, it had not been able to infect him. But when the pirate died, and his son began regaining his memories, that darkness had been freed of the body that contained it, and so sought another...the one to which it was most closely related.

"Yes," Rumplestiltskin answered eventually, "I think both of those personas—the light and the dark—were warring inside you."    

Baelfire's eyes widened slightly, and he placed a hand on his chest with a shudder, as though recalling an unpleasant sensation. "Is that why the shadow is so different now?" He asked in a small voice, clearing his throat. "Darker and...alive?"

Rumplestiltskin nodded, before opening his mouth to explain, "Magical beings, especially the darkest ones, cannot always be defeated by physical death alone. They often leave behind...remnants." His eyes darting over to the drawer, picturing the shadowy being imprisoned within it. "That is no ordinary shadow, son. It is two shadows, two opposites born of the same source, merged in one."

At least that was what Rumplestiltskin suspected. The shadow's behavior seemed to contain elements of both personalities, displaying a rather menacing sort of playfulness when interacting with his son. Rumplestiltskin trained his attention on the boy, who was currently staring down at his hands, with his forehead creased in thought.

“Hook will always be a part of me then,” Baelfire said solemnly, glancing at his chest and then at the chest of drawers, “He’s left his footprints.”

There was a sadness laced within the boy's tone, more wistful than overwhelming, and Rumplestiltskin wondered if his son felt he had lost a part of himself, perhaps the youthful innocence he had enjoyed as Peter Pan.  Rumplestiltskin could think of no effective way to comfort the boy, but he could certainly relate, having often on solitary nights longed to return to the simple man he had been before the Ogre Wars, before his cowardice, before his curse...

"Perhaps we can get rid of it?" Aibreann offered helpfully, her caring gaze fixated on the boy who had known far more suffering than he deserved, "Banish it someho—"

“No,” Baelfire interrupted firmly, but not unkindly, shaking his head. “I don’t want to forget. The past is something that we should learn from.”  His eyes met Rumplestiltskin’s tender gaze, “My papa taught me that.”

In that moment Rumplestiltskin was certain there was nothing more moving than the pride and admiration he saw in his son's eyes.  For a long moment neither looked away, but then the faint jostling of the drawer captured Baelfire's attention once more.

He strode over to the dresser, staring intently down at it. "I want to bind it to me somehow," he declared resolutely, watching as the shadow shook the dresser in protest. "The entire shadow, even the part that is Hook....He's weaker in this form, and I can keep him from controlling me now.  And this way," his gaze flitted over to the carving of Scout for a moment, before returning to the drawer, "There's no way he can hurt anyone else."

A wave of pride crested within Rumplestiltskin's chest at his son's display of maturity, and when his gaze met Belle's, he could see she felt the same.  Aibreann, too, appeared deeply impressed with the boy's decision, though her eyes soon filled with contemplation.

"Binding it will require magic," she said quietly, looking from the slightly quivering chest of drawers to Baelfire. Her words sent a trickle of dread through Rumplestiltskin's veins; magic had cost him and his son so much...he dreaded the thought of relying on its fickle help once more.

Aibreann sighed deeply, her wings drooping from exhaustion. Belle graciously outstretched a hand, allowing the weary fairy to perch there.

"If only there wasn't a price," the pixie said morosely.  Baelfire looked down at his feet, grimacing at the mention of yet another price to be met. Rumplestiltskin watched as his son began to fidget with the silver bracelet wrapped about his wrist.

Suddenly, an idea struck Rumplestiltskin so soundly he had to fight to find the words to voice it. He walked over to where the boy stood, gently but eagerly grasping his hand and lifting it to inspect the piece of jewelry.  Just as he suspected, if he turned it just right in the firelight, he could glimpse a whisper of violet within its strands.

Magic, captured within the silver threads and already paid for long ago, before he mastered his infamous ability to spin straw into gold.

He felt he could shout with joy at the realization, but settled instead for a relieved laugh.  He looked excitedly around the room, and when his eyes took in everyone's completely bewildered expressions, he felt his ears grow warm with embarrassment.

"There's magic still contained in the bracelet I made for Bae," he explained after clearing his throat, his lips stretched in a slightly sheepish smile, "And we don't have to worry about a price, because I've already paid it."

Belle's features brightened at the information, her lips curving in a wide smile as she shared in Rumplestiltskin's relief.

"But how will you use it?" Aibreann asked, leaping into the air and floating over to peer down at the chain over Rumplestiltskin's shoulder, "There may not be enough to channel and transfer—"

"I'm not going to channel it," the man explained calmly, carefully unclasping the bracelet, "I'm going to unravel it into separate strands of thread."

When Rumplestiltskin moved to fully remove the bracelet from Baelfire's wrist, he glimpsed a flicker of reluctance in the boy's eyes. His son looked down at the bracelet, raising his other hand to trace a finger against the chain.

"It's been a part of me, a part of _us_ , for so long..." The boy murmured, his brows knitting together.

"And now it always will be," Rumplestiltskin responded gently, his hands still hovering over the boy's wrist as he waited for his permission to remove the bracelet, "Can you trust that?"

Baelfire glanced up at him, the corner of his mouth curving up in a half-smile. "I trust you," he said calmly, pulling his hand away so that the chain now hung only in Rumplestiltskin's grasp.

For a long moment, Rumplestiltskin could neither move nor speak, floored by the words he had feared he would never again hear his son speak, not after everything he had done to the boy, regardless of how much he had tried to undo it all....He swallowed thickly, inhaling a shaky breath and feeling his lips twitch into a tender smile.

With a last look into his son's eyes for confirmation, Rumplestiltskin began untwining the silver, until he held three very thin strands of metal several minutes later.  He held them up in the light, his smile widening when he once more glimpsed a flash of violet.

"And then you," he continued, turning to face Belle, whose eyebrows shot up in surprise, "Are going to use these to sew the shadow to Bae."

"What?!" Belle exclaimed, her blue eyes staring at him as though he had grown an extra head. Baelfire laughed incredulously at the idea, which Rumplestiltskin imagined must have seemed rather absurd to anyone unpracticed in the magical arts.

"But, won't that hurt him?" Belle asked worriedly, glancing at the silver threads apprehensively, her brows knitted in confusion.

Rumplestiltskin chuckled, shaking his head. "Not at all. In fact," he peered closely at the silver threads dangling from his fist, pulling them slightly, "They should disappear the moment you pull them through." "I used gold ones on your cloak back at my castle," he added, his cheeks flushing slightly at Belle's surprised expression, and he cleared his throat lightly, "To protect you." 

Belle smiled softly at him for a moment, before her gaze filled once more with apprehension. "I've never handled magic before, Rum. What if I...make a mistake?"

"I'd do it myself, but..." Rumplestiltskin held up his right hand, demonstrating how stiff and swollen his knuckles still were from the confrontation on the dock. He approached her, tenderly running the backs of his bruised fingers against her cheek. "I know you can do this, Belle. Magic is driven by emotion; do you want to protect our Bae?"

She visibly started at his use of the pronoun "our", her mouth dropping slightly open before stretching into a brilliant smile. "Yes," she said fervently, her voice thick with emotion, nodding her head, "I'd do anything for him."

Rumplestiltskin returned her smile, fighting against the myriad wonderful emotions prickling at the corners of his eyes. "Then you have everything you need," he murmured, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to her forehead.  He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling the sweet, almost floral scent of her hair.

"Except a needle," Baelfire piped in, grinning cheekily up at them as they separated somewhat bashfully.  Belle's face glowed a brilliant crimson as she took a step back, her hands twisting together in front of her.

"Right," she said somewhat breathlessly, "A needle. I'll be back."  She turned about and left the cabin in search of the tool, Aibreann following after her to help light the way up the stairs.  Rumplestiltskin watched his love retreat, smiling at the way her blush spread across the back of her neck as well.  When he returned his attention to his son, he nearly choked on his laughter at the smug smirk the boy wore.

"I've never seen you look at someone like that before," Baelfire said in a playful tone, grinning at his father as he lifted himself to sit atop the chest of drawers.

Rumplestiltskin feigned ignorance, all of the sudden feeling rather shy at his son's teasing. "Like what?" He asked, cringing slightly when he realized how obviously fake the attempt was.

"Like you're seeing the sun for the first time," the boy answered more seriously, smiling softly, and for a moment Rumplestiltskin could only gaze at the boy in silent wonder.  He opened his mouth to respond, to tell Baelfire that he imagined he had looked at him the same way on the day of his birth.  But before the words could escape him, the boy spoke again, his chestnut eyes filling with a gentle sort of awe

"You said 'our Bae,'" he murmured somewhat breathlessly, his eyes misting over as his mind undoubtedly pictured what the words meant, "Yours and Belle's. Am I really going to be her son, too, one day? Are you going to ask her to mar—"  

Rumplestiltskin did not get to hear the rest of his son's question as Belle and Aibreann returned, the former's arms carrying a small bundle. He focused his attention on them, trying to calm his racing heart, which was still recovering from the combination of nerves and exhilaration that had flooded him while his son had been speaking.

Baelfire’s eyes lit up when Belle placed what was revealed to be the boy's tunic of autumn leaves on a nearby table.  He leapt down from the drawer and hurried over to it, a wide grin stretching across his face.

"Is that..." Baelfire's voice trailed off as he reached out and picked up the garment, which no longer bore the damage dealt to it two days prior. He gazed down at it in such amazement, Belle could not stifle a soft laugh.

"Yes," Belle answered, playfully ruffling his hair, "I mended it earlier while you were resting."

The others watched as the boy traced a hand over the neat stitching in the center of the tunic, his wide grin transforming into a softer, more subdued smile. It was as though he were greeting a life-long friend.

"I'm sorry I had to tear it in the first place," Rumplestiltskin said quietly. His son's brow furrowed slightly in confusion for a moment, before understanding softened his features.

"No," Baelfire responded, raising his eyes from the garment, "Don't be sorry." He glanced up at his father, before letting his gaze travel over everyone in the room. "Thank you. All of you," he spoke fervently, his eyes coming to rest on his father once more, "For everything you've done."

No one spoke for a long moment, their expressions alone conveying all the love, gratitude, and relief that words could never do justice.  Out of the corner of his eye, Rumplestiltskin saw Aibreann swipe a tiny hand across her cheek, removing a tear that had fallen there.

It was the shadow that eventually broke the proverbial spell that had held them, rattling the drawer slightly as though predicting the approaching end of its freedom.  Baelfire placed his repaired tunic on the nearby table, before striding over to the dresser and bending to peer through the keyhole.

"I suppose we should do it now before it gets a second wind," he said thoughtfully, straightening and turning around.  Rumplestiltskin nodded, tucking the silver strands beneath his belt and retrieving the small iron key from the tabletop.

"Ready?" He asked quietly, poising the key before the lock and glancing at everyone in the room.  When they all nodded, Belle perhaps a little uneasily, he inserted the key and unlocked the drawer.

Much to everyone's surprise, the shadow did not immediately attempt to spring free.  It slid through the open drawer, but was easily restrained by Baelfire's and Rumplestiltskin's hands. It's dark shoulders slumped in defeat, and Rumplestiltskin found himself wondering if it had indeed exhausted itself with its earlier vigorous escape attempts.

Gripping the silhouette by its arms and feet, the father and son carefully walked over to the fire and sat down. The shadow felt like a cold film between Rumplestiltskin's fingers, and it was so thin he was surprised they could grasp it at all.

Bearing down on it with most of his weight, just in case its exhaustion was all a ruse, Rumplestiltskin waited for his son to situate himself on the floor and line his feet with the shadow's.  Once the boy was prepared, Rumplestiltskin removed the silver threads from beneath his sash and signaled for Belle to approach.

Belle inhaled and exhaled slowly as she walked over, and it was not hard for Rumplestiltskin to guess what mantra she was repeating in her brilliant mind: _Do the brave thing and bravery will follow._ The smile which came to the man's lips at the memory was unbidden, and he shook his head slightly to force himself to focus on the delicate task at hand.

Belle knelt beside them, a thin needle clutched in her right hand. Aibreann approached them as well, and Rumplestiltskin nearly chuckled at the bright interest reflected in her tiny eyes. She had been in Neverland for centuries, and he imagined she had probably not seen such a peculiar demonstration of magic in a very long time, if at all.

Rumplestiltskin carefully took the needle from Belle, lifting one of the silver strands to thread through the eye.  It was a difficult feat with his bruised and stiff fingers, but he wanted to ensure this new arrangement would not impair the magic before handing the equipment to Belle. He leaned slightly closer to the fire to see more clearly, and at that moment one of the burning logs broke. The disconnected ends fell into the flames, casting an even brighter orange glow over the domed cabin and those inside.

It was then that both Aibreann and Baelfire released soft gasps of surprise. Rumplestiltskin started slightly, nearly pricking his finger on the needle, before casting a questioning glance at the two.  When he lifted his eyes and saw that they were staring at him, he quirked an eyebrow, asking in a voice rather reminiscent of his more impish days, "Do I have something on my face?"

Belle smothered a laugh behind her hand, but the others simply continued to stare, their expressions caught between wonder and confusion. It was Aibreann who finally spoke, her wings fluttering as she hovered nearer.

"You look..." she began softly, her forehead creasing in thought as her eyes unabashedly traced his features, "Different."

"Yeah, a lot younger," Baelfire supplied excitedly, and this time Belle could not hold back her mirth.  Rumplestiltskin chuckled as well at his boy's innocently blatant words, and he saw Aibreann shake her head affectionately.

“But how?” The boy continued curiously, his eyes still focused on his father's face. “Was it magic?”

"The most powerful of all," Rumplestiltskin murmured, his gaze flickering to Belle, whose cheeks flushed lightly, "True love's kiss."

He eyes lingered on hers for a moment, knowing she, too, was reliving the sweet bliss of their kiss, before returning his attention to Aibreann and Baelfire.  The pixie's face was split in a beaming smile, and his son grinned as well, a vibrant blush painting him from forehead to neck.

Rumplestiltskin placed the needle and thread aside, removing the dagger tucked at his waist. Wordlessly, with a light smile curving his lips, he held it out for Aibreann and Baelfire to see.  Their eyes eagerly traced the tarnished blade and the distinct absence of a name carved into it. Though curiously shaped, it looked no more threatening than any other weapon left to rust and corrode from disuse.

"The curse is broken, son." The boy looked up, and Rumplestiltskin stared unblinkingly into his eyes, returning the dagger beneath his sash, "For good."

Shock flashed across Baelfire's features, and with a slightly trembling chin he breathed, “Papa…”

"I know," Rumplestiltskin whispered, once more feeling lighter than air, "I can hardly believe it myse—” But his words were cut short when, in the next moment, the boy sprang himself forward, looping his arms tight about his father's neck. Rumplestiltskin felt him flinch when the quick movement jostled his ribs, but the lad clung on.

It had been the prospect of this end that had driven their deal in the first place, and to know that this dark magic would never tear them apart again was an incredible relief.  Rumplestiltskin returned the boy's embrace firmly, one hand placed carefully between his shoulders, and the other against the back of his neck, just grazing the unruly curls on his head. The shadow stirred feebly on the floor, but Baelfire's knees managed to keep it soundly in place.

A long moment passed before they parted, Rumplestiltskin giving his son's shoulder a gentle squeeze when he returned to sit before him. His heart clenched when he saw there were tears in Baelfire's eyes.  But the boy blinked them back, giving his father a tremulous smile and lining his feet once more with his silhouette's.

With a small cough, Rumplestiltskin returned his attention to the task at hand, picking up the needle once more.  He succeeded in threading the silver string through the eye of the needle and tied a knot at the end, relieved when the action did not seem to affect the magic contained within it.  In fact, the magic seemed to affect the needle; Rumplestiltskin pressed the sharp tip against his finger, nodding in satisfaction when it did not sting or draw blood.

Now fully confident that the process would not harm his son, Rumplestiltskin handed the equipment to Belle.  She took it from him without a moment's hesitation, though he could see some trepidation still whirling in her blue eyes.

"It should be no more difficult that darning a sock," he said reassuringly, watching as she swallowed thickly against her nervousness.  Belle scooted closer to Baelfire, cautiously picking up the foot of the shadow, which seemed to have surrendered all attempts at escape now.

"Tell me if it hurts at all," she insisted, glancing up as the boy nodded. With a steadying deep breath, she pressed the filmy silhouette against the side of his foot and as quickly and carefully as she could, punctured and pulled the first stitch through his skin.

Everyone in the room seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief when Baelfire did not flinch or otherwise express that it had caused him pain. There was not even a drop of blood or tiny wound at the site where she had pierced the boy’s foot. Belle's eyes widened in shock when the section of thread composing the stitch suddenly vanished, though she could still feel the tension of the string when she pulled gently.

"It doesn't hurt," Baelfire said in light surprise, staring down at where the shadow now met his foot, "It just feels warm, like the needle's been sitting in the sun for a while."

Undoubtedly feeling more confident, Belle performed another couple stitches, both she and Baelfire watching in fascination as the silver continued to disappear.  When she slid the needle through the skin of his toe he twitched, his lips pressing together in a line.  Both Rumplestiltskin and Belle looked up, their expressions concerned.

"It—it tickles a bit," the boy said somewhat sheepishly, his foot twitching again when Belle completed the stitch.   

Rumplestiltskin chuckled, before admonishing gently, "Try to keep still, son."

Baelfire nodded, his brow creasing in concentration as Belle efficiently finished sewing the shadow to his foot.  Rumplestiltskin used his dagger to sever the silver thread from the needle, allowing Belle to tie it into a sturdy knot.  The string had completely vanished by that point but the magic remained behind, and the silhouette remained in place even as Baelfire lifted and flexed his foot.

By the time Belle had begun fastening the boy's other foot to the shadow, he had apparently grown accustomed to the spontaneous tickling sensations. He did not fidget or stifle a laugh, but smiled with an apparent growing satisfaction as his own shadow was finally bound to him forever.

Belle completed this length of sewing far more quickly, occasionally glancing up to ensure that Baelfire was still comfortable.  When she reached the heel of his left foot, she pulled the thread taut, gesturing for Rumplestiltskin to cut it from the needle.  He did so, and everyone in the room seemed to teem with anticipation as Belle finished tying the knot, watching as the string faded into invisibility. One silver thread remained unused, and with a slight twinge of nostalgia Rumplestiltskin tucked it beneath his sash; although the memory attached to it was too meaningful to ever be lost, he could not bring himself to part completely from the thin chain just yet.

Cautiously, Baelfire pulled himself to his feet. He turned to face the wall, his smile growing when he saw his shadow standing against it.  Eyes narrowed slightly, he bent his arms and placed his fists on his waist, laughing triumphantly when the shadow obediently imitated him.  He moved some more, lifting a leg and waving a hand, and although there was occasionally a very slight delay in the silhouette's actions, it was mostly compliant.

"Thank you, Tinker Belle," Baelfire exclaimed happily, flexing his feet and toes, "I can't even feel the stitches anymore."

Belle smiled softly up at him, before covering her mouth as a deep yawn escaped her.  "Excuse me," she laughed quietly, her eyes appearing somewhat bleary with fatigue.

"You should get some rest," Rumplestiltskin encouraged gently, smiling as he tucked an errant curl behind her ear, "It's only a few hours until dawn."

"We all should," Belle agreed, raising her hand to cover Rumplestiltskin's and pressing it closer to her cheek for a moment.  She turned her gaze to Baelfire then, who was still quietly testing out his shadow against the wall. "Even you, mister," she added affectionately, releasing a soft laugh when he whirled to face her with a slightly sheepish grin, "Once the boys learn you're better, they won't want to leave you alone for a second."

Something in the boy's demeanor shifted ever so slightly; the smile on his face and the glee in his eyes wavered, and for a moment sadness overtook his features. "Yeah..." He murmured, before clearing his throat lightly. He flashed her another broad smile, and then turned to look at his shadow once more. Rumplestiltskin continued to watch the boy intently, his forehead creasing slightly at this sudden change in behavior.

"I won't be up much longer," Baelfire promised as Belle rose to her feet, rubbing her eyes wearily with her fists.

"I'll be in the cabin just above," she told Rumplestiltskin, running her fingertips softly through his hair, "Tootles has been having trouble sleeping lately."

Rumplestiltskin nodded, touched by her unfailing consideration for others, and gently pulled her hand from his hair to press a kiss to her palm.  Despite how tired she undoubtedly felt, her answering smile lit up her whole face.  Rumplestiltskin hoped she would never tire of his kisses; he longed to have her look at him that way forever.

"Goodnight," she murmured sweetly, before removing her hand from his and walking toward the doorway.  Aibreann remained behind for a moment, casting a meaningful look between Rumplestiltskin and his son as she hovered in the air.

She seemed to shake herself from her thoughts then, her tiny lips stretched in a smile as she nodded her head in Rumplestiltskin's direction. “I'll be turning in myself, after I check on the other boys. Belle instructed them to leave Bae to his rest, but they've undoubtedly heard all this commotion," she chuckled lightly glancing up at the ceiling, "Best tell them all is well before their curiosity drives them from their beds."

Rumplestiltskin nodded in thanks; the prospect of the five boisterous boys bumbling down the stairs in the middle of the night with a thousand questions was a rather daunting one, and he was grateful to put it off for at least a few more hours.

With another soft laugh, she turned about and pursued Belle out of the cabin. After they crossed the threshold and began ascending the stairs, Rumplestiltskin returned his attention to his son. Although the boy still faced the wall, he could see the slight drop of his shoulders, the way his movements no longer seemed as energetic or enthusiastic as they had but a few moments ago.

“What is it, son?” He pressed gently, moving closer to the boy.

Baelfire started slightly at the question, turning to face his father with the same faux grin stretching his lips. "Nothing," he said too quickly for Rumplestiltskin to think for one second that it was true.

"Bae," he said more sternly, his eyes staring unblinkingly into his son's.  The boy sighed deeply, his shoulders slouching further and his gaze averting to his feet.

"It's just..." Baelfire ran a hand through his hair, rubbing at the back of his neck, "I wish I didn't have to tell the boys they can't come with us."

Rumplestiltskin opened his mouth to respond and reassure his son, but the boy continued on, preventing him from doing so.

"I don't blame you," he added hurriedly, looking up again, "I understand. It's a lot to take care of so many people, and we don't have much, but I can't _help_ wishing—"  

"Baelfire," Rumplestiltskin interrupted, fighting back a chuckle at how closely the boy sometimes resembled his beautiful Belle. "They don't have to stay here."

His son's eyebrows rose in surprise, a hopeful grin slowly spreading across his face. He seemed too joyously shocked to speak, so Rumplestiltskin continued to explain, smiling softly.

"Things are much different now, son," he said quietly, "We won't be returning to our land, at least for a while I suspect. Where we'll be going..." the corners of his mouth curved into a slight smirk at the memory of just how much "comfort" Regina had ensured he would enjoy under the Curse, "We certainly won't have to live in a hut."

He reached out a hand, gesturing for Baelfire to sit with him before the fire.  The boy did so, casting a quick grin over his shoulder when his shadow obediently mimicked him.  He turned his gaze to his father then, listening with rapt attention.

"There is plenty of space for the boys where we'll live," Rumplestiltskin continued, "Perhaps, we can even find their families."

Baelfire's eyes lit up at the suggestion. "That's all I've ever wanted for them," he breathed, positively beaming at his father, "To belong, and be safe."

As though in protest of the boy's words, the shadow suddenly straightened against the wall, its left fist raised menacingly. They both started slightly at the change, their gazes trained somewhat warily on the independently moving silhouette.  The groove of a hook suddenly grew out of the end of the shadow's fist, and it raised it sinisterly until it hung just above the carving of Scout.

At this Baelfire jumped to his feet, his jaw set determinedly.  His eyes scanned the cabin, finally landing on the fire poker as a smirk slowly curved the boy's lips.  He snatched it up from the ground, and for a brief moment Rumplestiltskin felt a surge of worry that his son would try to injure the shadow with it. But his fears were assuaged when Baelfire instead turned to face the fire, perseverance and defiance brightening his gaze.

"You don't frighten me anymore, Hook. And why should you?" Baelfire said challengingly, leaning forward to stick the end of the poker into the burning logs. “You’re nothing but a shadow.” Demonstrating his words, the boy jerked the tool to the side, spreading the logs and drastically decreasing the flames.  Rumplestiltskin said nothing, watching as his son took his own fate into his hands.

Baelfire continued to spread the embers, his eyes trained on the shadow gradually disappearing in the growing darkness. When all that remained in the hearth were a few smoldering pieces of wood, he straightened.  He breathed deeply, and Rumplestiltskin could not tell if it was from the physical effort or the myriad emotions flashing in the boy's eyes.  He watched as his son swallowed thickly, looking down at the ruined fire.

"Can you really love me still, Papa?" Baelfire asked after a long moment in a voice barely louder than a whisper. He did not seem sorrowful, but merely pensive, and perhaps just a tad in need of reassurance. "Knowing that _this_ is a part of who I am now?"

Rumplestiltskin slowly pulled himself to his feet, his chest tightening at the boy's question. "You love me," he said quietly, reaching out a hand to place on his son's shoulder as he moved to stand beside him, "Knowing what I've done, who I became as the Dark One."

"And nothing will change that," Baelfire interjected fervently, staring up at his father.

"Exactly," Rumplestiltskin responded in a whisper, his heart feeling as though it could burst with joy at his son's words, "And nothing will _ever_ change my love for you, Bae."

"The monsters and shadows of our pasts cannot hurt us now," he continued after a moment, giving Baelfire's shoulder a light squeeze, "We've overcome them, son."

"And now we're free," the boy murmured, placing his hand over his father's.

Rumplestiltskin smiled softly, his heart swelling at the notion.  His mind contemplated how much he had gained over these past few days, how much he had learned, and how his curse had finally been lifted from his weary shoulders. It had not come without sacrifice and pain, but that price seemed little now with his son safe at his side and his true love sleeping peacefully above them.

"Yes," he breathed, feeling as though he could laugh or even sing at the idea, "Now we are free."

They stood like that for a while, watching the last red embers fade into ash, encasing the cabin in darkness but for the moonlight filtering through the window.  Rumplestiltskin heard Baelfire hum softly in thought, and a moment later the boy prompted quietly, "Papa?"

"Hmm?" Rumplestiltskin responded, the corners of his lips once more twitching into a smile.

"How _are_ we all going to get back home?"

"I..." Rumplestiltskin's voice trailed off as he realized they would not be able to return the way they came; they were too many in number with too few fairies to help. Shaking his head and feeling a bizarre urge to laugh, he finished, "...have no idea."

It seemed they had quite a lot to figure out come morning, but with his son laughing lightly at his side, Rumplestiltskin simply could not bring himself to worry.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Last time you heard the brilliant vocals of our Season 1 narrator, Katie Dehnart, with the Prologue to our series, and now we’d like to introduce you to another very talented voice artist, Sandy Delonga, who will star as our Season 2 narrator. This preview will give you a glimpse into the immersive world we’re creating for your enjoyment. You'll even hear me, as I play Aibreann. We hope you enjoy!
> 
> Listen [HERE.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N2K1cn-TSUk)
> 
> ~  
> Warrior717


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